


Loveless

by merinxD



Series: Loveless [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Person, M/M, Modern verse, adult characters, art verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merinxD/pseuds/merinxD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Haru is a 25 year old painter who has lost his spark while his rival of the art world is coming up bigger and better, taking the front page and claiming rave reviews. Haru’s manager prompts him to build an online audience like Rin has. It doesn’t help him get his spark back though. </p><p>Haru makes the blog reluctantly and uploads his artwork. Then he gets his first follower…</p><p>The story of a rambling writer, a lost artist and a tenuous bond built through a keyboard and a link that might be called fate. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by anilin :)
> 
> Please note that this series will eventually be adapted into an original novel. This version will not be removed but no further edits will be made. I own the copy right and am allowed to keep both in place with warnings. Thank you for your understanding.

It’s a dreary afternoon outside and it reflects the way that I feel. It’s dark and gloomy and the rain pelts down with no sign of stopping. It’s fitting and is strangely satisfying.

I can hear the shower running in the apartment above mine as the old pipes creak and the water flows, forcing itself through the old copper like it is going to seize up at any moment. It surprises me that it hasn’t already. This apartment building is older than me; older than the middle aged man next door. It was my grandmother’s before she passed on and it became mine shortly after my 18th birthday.

I’m 25 now and I’ve achieved nothing. Well, nothing that deserves merit. I’m a painter that doesn’t deserve the name, or so this article tells me. I’ve been staring at it for the past fifteen minutes like it will change the words. It’s a review and it isn’t bad, but it certainly isn’t good. I’m on page seven for fucks sake and my rival’s newest piece is stamped across page one! I don’t know why it even matters, because it isn’t the issue at hand. I wasn’t competitive before this artist, Rin, slammed up beside me with surprising works full of feeling and fire. He’s a dick, too, but his paintings have the ability to move anyone. Even someone like me…

There are many words on the paper in front of me, written in tiny text below a picture of my newest oil work. I only see one word, though: loveless.

My art has become  _loveless_.

It’s beyond irritating because I can see it too and I have no idea how to change it. The picture of the sea crashing forward should be turbulent and meaningful. The audience should feel a pull when they see it, but even I feel nothing. It’s just a print of a painting of waves. A family holiday photo would mean more than this rubbish. Not that I really know what that’s like either, since I’ve never been on a vacation before. I’ve never been anywhere with someone other than just me. My grandmother was always too sick and I’ve never had parents.

I know that I must have had them at some point, but I can’t remember them. They were just two well off people that died in an untimely fashion and left me their life’s savings; left me in the care of a frail woman with a ticking clock above her head.

If I was obaasan’s son, then maybe I would have experienced things like that, but I didn’t and I don’t think that I want to. I don’t like going outside, which is ironic since it’s the only thing that I paint or think about. It comes from my mind, though; comes to me in my dreams. I think that a me in a previous life really enjoyed the outdoors or water at least because I dream of swimming. I dream of cool pools and flowing streams; of beautiful waterfalls that steal my breath and crashing waves that build me full of fear and wake me with a scream of my own making.

I used to wake up, sweating, crying and completely inspired. I’d paint for hours with no sleep at all, never stopping to eat or drink. It started when I was really young; I was in primary school the first time. The drawing was entered into a competition and I won first place. Soon, I started to make more pieces of art and I used the winnings to buy supplies.

Back then they called me a prodigy, then I grew into my teens and the papers called me a genius. Now I’m just an ordinary person. I had my first big exhibit when I was 16, then another when I was 18 and more and more. I made a lot of money out of it, selling paintings to rich people that will never understand the meaning. They could see the feeling, though.

Now it isn’t possible because I’ve lost it. I don’t know what it is that I started with, but the dreams have stopped and I feel absolutely nothing. I should be more upset about this. Instead, I feel an odd sort of irritation that is mostly related to Rin and his stupid fire painting. The way that the water wraps around the flames steals my breath and I want to reach out and touch it. It deserves to be on page one and mine page seven.

I’m lucky to even get that. It was probably my reputation that did it.

Sighing heavily, like I’m completely burdened, I throw the newspaper to the side and lean back in my chair. My temples hurt and I can feel the telltale signs of a stress headache kicking in. The tightness behind the bridge of my nose and the ache of my eyes is something that I’ve grown used to. They started once the dreams fled and I was forced to find inspiration somewhere else.

Clearly I haven’t found it.

“Loveless.” I murmur into thin air. The wind billows outside and it swallows my words, like they were never spoken. It’s close to what I feel about myself. I have no friends, no family, no spark and there is only one thing reminding me that I’m still alive. Well, two; Rin and my aggravating manager. Nagisa never gets off my back. He’s been with me since I was 16 and he’s just as old as me, maybe even younger. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but he was what they called a genius as well. His IQ is ridiculously high and he could have achieved anything that he wanted.

Instead, he chose to manage my career. A career that is now crumbling to pieces because I’ve lost something intangible.

I guess my thoughts must have been a premonition, because my phone buzzes loud against the desk and I remove my hands from my head reluctantly. The caller I.d says, _Manager_. It makes me want to press ignore, but knowing him I’ll get five more phone calls before he shows up on my door step. The weather isn’t good and there is no way that I’m dealing with an overly cheerful 24 year old with the I.Q of a rocket scientist for the night, especially since he’s the touchy type and I hate people touching me. It’s almost as bad as people looking at me.

So I choose the smartest option and press the green button.

“Hello.” I can hear his breathing already and I feel like this was a bad decision. I sigh. It’s too late now.

“Haru!” The familiar voice greets, sounding as exuberant as always. “I have an offer for you.”

I don’t answer because there is no need. It’s been years since this person learnt to read the signals. Yes, Nagisa knows that I’m listening.

“We need a way to get you out to the masses. The sales are dropping and it’s important that we act quickly.” He says hurriedly, like this is the biggest idea of the century.

My brows furrow in annoyance. “I don’t care about that stuff.” I say. I’m always saying it in relation to different ideas of Nagisa’s. This has to be the hundredth time at least.

“I  _know_. Just, trust me on this. If we can get you up and running online, we can boost your marketability. There’s facebook and twitter and even tumblr. Look, if we don’t make any money, then okay.” Nagisa pauses and I sigh noticeably. “Just let me try, Haru?”

“I don’t want to.” I’m resolute, he can’t make me.

“Rin has a blog and he’s got a massive online audience.” That sneaky manager, he knows just how to get to me. I can feel my eye twitching and my fingers clenching around the phone a little tighter.

“I have a website.” I say evenly. It’s true, anyone can buy things there and that’s good enough.

Nagisa scoffs loudly. “You haven’t updated in months! The competition is just going to rise. You read the reviews, Haru. Today its page seven and tomorrow fifteen until you don’t even make the final print.”

He’s getting to me and although I’m silent, he makes a noise of pleasure like he knows that he has won.

“I should have fired you years ago.” I growl, but it has no sway and I know it. Dammit.

“But you haven’t.” Nagisa replies smugly. I really, really hate him.

“Fine! I’ll do one.” I agree. From previous experience, I know that it’s better to take away an option or two or Nagisa will go crazy with it. His excitability is probably the reason that I’ve done so well, but I refuse to go to all of this trouble. It’s not needed.

There’s a pause on the line and I know what’s coming, it’s Nagisa’s bargaining voice. It’s sweet and could fool a stranger, however I know that it sounds like power and manipulation.

“Why should I let you?” He asks me.

I knew that this was coming right from the start. I may as well give him what he wants.

“I’ll paint something and post it online.” I say, defeated. It feels like I’m a never ending pit of sighs.

My manager chuckles; it’s happy with a just a hint of evil. “Very good, Haru-chan.”

“Don’t call me that!” Have I said how much I hate him?

“Whatever you say. Email me the details.” He giggles.

The line goes dead and I drop my phone onto the hard wood with a  _thud_. I’m feeling more exhausted than a telephone conversation should make me and I know that if I don’t get onto this I’ll have someone knocking on my door earlier than I care to be awake.

So I open up my laptop, letting my eyes adjust to the bright screen. It’s dark in here with just the kitchen light on, but it only takes a moment for the squinting to lessen.

The browser opens slowly, and I’m reminded how badly I need to defrag my computer. There’s too much junk on it; art, articles, old essays and all sorts of paper work that can be sorted through as well. I don’t think I’ll get to it today or next week; maybe I’ll do it in a month.

There’s no point looking at Facebook. Nagisa has already prodded me in that direction before. I have three friends on my personal account and somehow I still have hundreds of requests to a ridiculous game about a farm. There’s no way those people would want to do that in real life, I certainly wouldn’t. It’s attached to my email and I don’t know how to stop it, so I often get notifications about Nagisa’s pigs and some other fruit that needs tending to.

No. Definitely not Facebook.

I type ‘twitter’ into the search engine and see that it’s the first result. There’s a page asking me to sign in but I won’t be fooled. I’m not dealing with more useless emails that I can’t stop. Clicking back, I choose ‘images’. I figure there has to be an example of _something_. There is, too, pictures upon pictures of people’s twitter conversations. Most are celebrities, it seems, and for some reason they are all talking about food.

“No.” I state flatly into the cold room. There’s no way in hell. I don’t like making lunch; I’m not going to read about it.

I move onto the last option and my expectations are really low, which is most likely the reason that I’m pleasantly surprised. This ‘Tumblr’ doesn’t look too bad. It says that it’s a blog platform where I can post my paintings and people can see them. I don’t even have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to; and I don’t.

This is clearly the easiest option and it will placate my manager for a while at least.

It takes me five minutes to go through the sign up process and as soon as my email is verified I find myself looking at a blank screen. There’s an orange icon that doesn’t need changing, though it’s quite ugly. All that is left to do is post something.

I press the button of a camera, as my rational thought process tells me to do. There was a guide, but I didn’t read it. Thankfully, I see a box pop up. There’s a plus sign in the middle that I toggle over and it’s asking me what file I want to upload.

What file…?

“Loveless.” I murmur, glancing at the newspaper just out of reach. I have a copy of the painting on my computer that Nagisa forwarded to me. It’s as good as anything and it isn’t like someone is going to see the first post anyway.

The picture appears on the screen and I tag it: art, waves and loveless. I’m not completely sure what the tagging is, but I think it’s so that people can find it if they search. I should put my name, even though my signature is on the canvas.

I don’t, though.

“Here goes.” I whisper as the page loads.

I’ve succeeded and my first piece of art is online. My description is brief and I’m sure that my manager will want to do some maintenance to the blog layout, but that wasn’t in the deal and I don’t care what it looks like.

I’ll email Nagisa later. I don’t feel like dealing with him right now.

Forcing myself from the chair, I make my way over to the kitchen. I did what I had to do today and although it’s only 4pm, I may as well eat and sleep. It’s not like I enjoy watching television or have any inspiration to speak of.

Opening the fridge and peering inside, I wonder absentmindedly,  _Will I ever get my spark back?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unedited.

Like always, my sleep is dreamless and the water doesn’t call. I’m depressed before I even wake up, and when I do it’s to the sound of my phone. There’s no way in hell that I’m answering it. It looks like the sun is up and it isn’t raining anymore; which is a shame. The device buzzes on the bedside table a few more times before it stops. Thank god. Only one person calls me and I’m really not in the mood to deal with Nagisa’s cheerful shit. Groaning, I stretch my stiff limbs and stare up at the ceiling. The fan above me whirrs slowly, around and around and around. It’s not enough to keep the warmth out, and I can feel sweat starting to form on my skin, making my shirt cling to me.

“Fine.” I murmur into the empty apartment. My voice is groggy and I sound like I need to sleep a thousand more years. Though, this is how I always feel. Days seem to drag on for life times and nights aren’t much better. My food tastes bland and there’s nothing good to watch on television, or anything that I want to read. Every day is the same. I get up, walk aimlessly around my apartment, water stupid plants that my manager insists are good for me, before going into my studio to produce absolutely nothing at all. I used to sleep six or seven hours; sometimes two or three depending on if I was painting. I can’t paint though. It took me over a month to produce a loveless piece of art that flopped completely. I could have painted something better when I was a teenager. Hell, I did!

 It’s been this way since I lost my spark and I don’t see anyway to change it. So I guess I’ll just continue living until something happens on its own. Surely it can’t stay this way forever; and if it does I suppose I’ll get used to it. 

They say that time heals all wounds and I believe that to be true to some extent. My wounds don’t hurt because I can’t feel anything. Even when I was young my grangran and painting kept me alive. I felt strongly for the water in my head and grangran was the woman in my heart. There wasn’t anything else that I loved. I hated school even though I was good at it. I didn’t like sports or clubs. I think I already said that I didn’t have any friends and still don’t.

Nagisa says that he’s my friend and he’s always been there for me. If I was in trouble he would be the first person that I’d call, and I think about him more often than I’d like to; it’s mostly subconscious. Does that make him my friend? Is that the definition of friendship? I pay him of course, but there are no real boundaries to our arrangement. I’m not even sure what he does exactly. He’s the man that makes things happen and I’m supposed to take his advice, and in return I pay him a generous salary with bonuses on the back of particularly big sales, and put up with him bringing take away to my house on a Friday night. I know that he’s smart; really smart. But I don’t know where he lives or what he does in his free time; if he has a girlfriend. 

He asked me once if I was involved with anyone. “You’re always so secretive.” He said. I told him no, that I’ve never had a lover and I didn’t think that there was anything else to say. Lover’s weren’t essential to my human experience and they still aren’t. 

“But you know what you like, of course.” Nagisa smiled with a nod, like it was a given. We were watching some ridiculous movie about a man and a woman and piles and piles of sap, so it probably brought the conversation on. You can probably tell who started it. 

“Know what I like?” I questioned, and I sounded confused even to myself.

At the time I didn’t know and I was at least twenty. It was perplexing and really made me think. I’ve never looked at women or men and thought of them as attractive, or ‘mate’ material. I still haven’t found someone that catches my attention. They’re all just people in my eyes, and people aren’t as good as water paintings. Paintings express emotion in small doses and target specifically, while humans are filled with all different feelings that are difficult to distinguish. Paintings are simple while humans are complex. I’m a testament to that. I can’t complete my job because I’ve lost something that I can’t put my finger on, I don’t understand people or my own feelings, I don’t know if my only contact is a friend or associate, I don’t even know if I’m gay or straight. I might not be either. I could be nothing. 

Back then, watching the romantic movie, I said that to Nagisa and he laughed. It didn’t look like he cared if I was any; gay, straight, nothing, everything. 

“You’ll find someone Haru.” He promised, and for some reason it was vaguely comforting.

We didn’t talk anymore about it but now I think that I should have asked him a bit more about himself; what his life is like. I don’t know if I’m interested or just bored. I probably don’t care at all, but he’s always been poking his head in my affairs. 

I don’t imagine that all managers are so nosey. I’m either very lucky or very unlucky. I’m inclined to pick the last, but I’m a pessimist. Nagisa would pick the first. 

For some reason that makes me smile. I also notice that I haven’t moved and I feel disgusting. 

“Shower.” 

The floor is cold beneath my bare feet and it feels nice. It’s almost lunch time and my stomach is rumbling but I want to feel clean first. I dislike being sweaty or grimy, and can’t handle it unless I’m painting; then I don’t notice anything at all. 

I turn the air-conditioner on first and double check that all the windows and doors are shut. My apartment looks especially brown today, it’s probably the way the sun shines through the glass but it doesn’t really bother me. I like brown, it’s a fine unobtrusive colour. People don’t give brown enough credit. 

I bypass the kitchen and slide through the curtain that separates the main area from the hallway. It used to be made of beads but I replaced it after grangran died. It would always get caught in my hair and it didn’t keep the cold air in. I bought this ugly floral divider for a low price at a thrift store that is located beside my favourite art supplies shop. It’s worked for almost eight years now and is getting a bit ratty. Regardless, I’ll use it until it falls to pieces. I don’t care what anything looks like unless it’s on a canvas. 

My bathroom is muggy but I forget about it as soon as the cool water hits my skin. I like being in here beneath the spray. I don’t have to think and the flow is soothing. It reminds me of the spark that I have lost but it doesn’t make me bitter. Bathing always makes me determined, actually. My apartment doesn’t have a tub though I imagine that I’d like to soak in it if I had one. I think I’d find inspiration there. 

I don’t bother with any warm water and after I’ve completed my cleansing ritual I stand in the small cubicle for awhile more. It must be even longer than I anticipated because when I look down I note that my skin is starting to prune and I look like I’ve aged about ten years. It’s usually my cue to get out, so I do with a sigh. 

It’s still hot and my stomach hasn’t stopped rumbling. I brush my teeth and stare at my reflection listlessly. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, frail, signs of sleep deprivation, I’m definitely something that should stay off a canvas. If I went outside I doubt that I’d even find someone who’d find me attractive, and it’s probably a good thing that I’m not interested. I’ll admit that I’m curious, but definitely not in an exploratory way. 

Leaving my towel on the rack I traipse back to my bedroom and throw on some boxer shorts quickly. I don’t want to be in the heat for too long, I’m already starting to sweat. 

Pushing through the floral curtain the cold air hits me and I’m very pleased that I used foresight. 

“Ah~.” A sigh escapes me and I feel completely relieved. I’d stand here for longer, soaking up the cool air, but my body is telling me that I need food. 

The fridge is just as cold as the a/c and I set about making a gigantic bowl of cereal. I don’t particularly like the taste of it but I don’t want to eat later on; it’s easier just to have more now. 

It’s five more minutes before I flop down at my desk chair (directly in front of the cool air) and open the lid to my laptop. I don’t really have anything that I need to do, but Nagisa may have emailed me back. 

He has. There are three messages from him in my inbox. He always has to go beyond what is normal, in every facet of our relationship. Unless I’m completely out of the loop and people are supposed to act like this.

He told me once when we were in high school that we should live together. I said no  _very_  resolutely. I didn’t know the traps of my manipulative manager back then, but I knew about his disposition. Ugh. Cohabiting. Not on my watch. 

Thankfully he let the matter go once I graduated from school. Of course, he had already finished university and grad school by the time I even entered university, which is probably the reason that we were able to focus on my career so much. He was helpful with my studies too and he’s a whizz at English. 

I shake my head and open the first mail. Who knew that I had so much information about Nagisa inside my head? I must be going crazy. 

_I tried to call you, Haru. You need to learn to keep your phone on you!_

_Since I know you’re going to ignore my other messages I’ll just let you learn for yourself._

_Check your blog._

_Talk to you soon. ;)_

_Nagisa._

I’m not calling him. I refuse. There is no reason for me to do so and he’s right, I’m not going to open up his other emails. I’m not sure if it’s because he said that I didn’t need to or if I’m afraid of what he has written. It might be a little bit of both. 

He’s so annoying. 

The blog site opens next and I decide to save it to my bookmarks. If what my manager says is true I’ll be using this tumblr a fair bit. The sign in page doesn’t appear because I haven’t logged out. I like that; no unnecessary steps. 

The screen in front of me is blue and there are buttons everywhere, that I’ll learn about through trial and error. But I don’t think this is what Nagisa was talking about. 

“Blog…” I say for no reason at all. It shouldn’t help, but it does. In the next moment I find the button that lets me view my blog and my eyes widen at the sight. 

Yesterday I saw my site and it was completely blank with an orange icon that I didn’t care to change. Now it’s covered in my art work dating back years, the layout is different, the background is a surprisingly nice blue and there is a picture of me on the right side with a description underneath. 

“Fucking Nagisa.” 

I don’t know what to feel. I want to be annoyed and angry because I didn’t give that busy body my password, but it doesn’t look bad at all. It makes me hate him a little more, just quietly. 

I throw back the contents of my breakfast and glare at the attractive looking screen. I don’t know where he got that photo of me and I don’t want to know. He’s down right creepy!

The porcelain hits the wood with a  _thunk_  and I’m moving before I can think too much. Bypassing the curtain I enter my room and reach for my phone. I bet Nagisa is waiting for a call from me at any moment and it makes me want to stall. 

I don’t though, and dial the first contact in my list while heading back to the cool confines of my shut off living area. 

I hear it connect and don’t wait for him to speak. 

“How did you get into my blog?” I ask tersely. I sound demanding and I’m really irritated. 

Nagisa hums happily on the other end, and I was right he’s been waiting for me. 

“It was easy.” He replies. I can just imagine him sitting back looking at his nails like he is the smartest fucking guy in the universe. He probably is. 

“I didn’t say you could change it.” I’m sounding petulant now. This phone call was a bad idea. 

“But you didn’t say I couldn’t.” Nagisa fires back and his voice is still smiling. 

My voice is wry and disapproving as I reply, “The password should have clued you in.”  

He hums again, he always doing that. “Not when you use the same password for everything. It was the same one you used in school. Silly Haru.” 

“Shut up.” I’m sick of this shit. Nagisa is such a meddler and I can’t even be properly annoyed about it because what I see in front of me is appealing. It’s got my best pieces of art, and looks much nicer than my old website. 

Nagisa laughs as I tell him, “I’m leaving.” I don’t wait for a reply and press the off button making sure that the screen goes black, and he can’t contact me for the rest of the day. He’ll have to break down my door if he wants me. 

I glance to the front door and wonder about the sturdiness. It isn’t possible, right?

“No. He wouldn’t.” I say, but I’m still sceptical but not enough to turn my phone back on. 

I sigh heavily, fingering my temples and willing the newly formed headache away. There’s no need to be stressed, and I’m not going to be. I just won’t look at this page anymore. 

I click out of it and the blue dashboard appears again. It reminds me of the Facebook newsfeed but there aren’t any annoying status’s. There’s actually nothing here aside from my own posts. It says that Nagisa has posted thirty items, not including my loveless piece of crap. Below my post counter is an activity counter that has a tiny spike in the graph. It looks like a heart monitor, and if it was I’d say that I’m dying. It’s a flat line with one tiny peak before turning into a flat line again.

My followers come next and I realise that it isn’t zero anymore. It says that I have one follower. Going into that section I find a tiny picture of a man with sandy brown hair, vibrant green eyes and thick rimmed glasses. He isn’t smiling but I imagine that it would be nice; he has that type of face. His name is ‘rambling-writer’. 

I decide to check it out by toggling the mouse over his name and pressing. It takes a moment to load because my bandwidth is shitty, but I’m left with a simple page full of different articles and stories. 

_Makoto Tachibana is a 25 year old columnist who publishes short stories and novels in his spare time. He won the 2013 award for up-and-coming young author with his novel, “Friendship”. This is a personal space where creative work and articles are posted._

My eyes linger on his photo again and I can’t believe that someone like him found me. He isn’t just an internet dweller. He’s an artist like me; an artist of words. 

An artist who has reposted one of my pictures and written something beneath it. I’m surprised when I realise, and it rises at the painting he has chosen. There are plenty of other canvases on my blog but loveless stares back at me with writing underneath. It’s tagged: writing, waves, loveless. The text isn’t much. It’s just a small descriptive about the waves stealing life and therefore love. It makes me imagine a monster within the abyss of water, ready to pull me in and and suck away all my talent and dreams. 

It feels like that has already happened. 

I get to the last section before I realise that my heart beat has sped up a good degree and my fingers are twitching. This is a familiar feeling. 

_The call of the ocean is as strong as a siren eating a man._

_It robs the soul and the worth within as the waves steal him away._

_Man survives the encounter a sputtering mess._

_He is now loveless._

There’s nothing special about the words and the rest of the piece was more compelling, but my heart feels like it’s jumping and it’s becoming hard to breathe. I grip the edge of the table with my free hand and my knee bounces up and down impatiently. There’s something building inside of me and I think I know what it is. 

I reblog his writing, and press the follow button; he’s my first internet connection. Rambling-writer’s piece is now on my blog for the world to see, but it’s also there to remind myself; I’m not exactly sure what. It’s important though. 

The chair scrapes backward and my next movements are thoughtless. I close my laptop and quickly stand, completely in a daze. I turn to the only room attached to this section of my house and stride forward. 

It’s the first time that I’ve entered my studio in weeks. 

The door closes behind me with a resounding click and the smell of paint overcomes me. The image of the sea is clear and it’s almost like my dreams. It’s just as turbulent and frightening. I’m nervous and giddy, but my face is a mask of concentration. 

I don’t remember collecting my supplies, or positioning the canvas. The only thing I know is that I’m painting and I’m not even sure what. 

_Is this my spark?_


	3. Chapter 3

xxx

“What prompted this?” Nagisa asks me. His arms are folded over his chest and he’s been staring at my painting for the last ten minutes. 

“Nothing.” I say, and I’m lying. I’m not completely sure what happened, but I know that I didn’t find my spark on my own. 

Nagisa fixes me with one of his heavy gazes. He’s always been good at looking through people and he’s been doing it for years. I hate that he’s had me pegged right from the start.

“Are you sure?” He looks perplexed. “Something must have made you want to paint, and I gotta tell you Haru, I haven’t seen you make something like this in a _long_ time.” He grins and I realise that he’s happy. The glint in his eyes suggests that he might even be impressed and that usually means that we’re going to make money; a lot of it. 

I nod once. I’m not bored but I’m sure that I look it; I always look like something is wrong; it’s just my face.

“I’m sure.” 

I’m not, actually. It’s another lie. Something happened to me three days ago and it all started with my laptop and that blog. I stare in the direction of the living room but the door to my studio is shut. It doesn’t stop me from imagining rambling-writer’s blog and the words that compelled me; words that I can’t even remember now. I need to look at it again.

“Haru, I love it.” My manager says again, softer than before. Without another word he reaches forward and I swat his hand away, like always. My eyes say _Don’t touch it_ and he smiles loftily. It makes me think that he wasn’t intending on fingering the canvas at all but instead trying to see if I would stop him. Nagisa’s sneaky in these little ways; always trying to see if I care. 

I do.

It’s unorthodox but he’s got his answer and his smile grows. Nagisa knows that this is the best thing that I have painted in over a year. I can feel the life seeping from the canvas as the water whirls upwards like it is going to escape the page. It’s a crashing storm that has reached the eye. It’s comforting and disconcerting all at the same time and I haven’t felt this much in so long. I was beginning to think that my heart had stopped working, that I had lost my soul. It’s still there, it must be; because every time I set my eyes on the grey blue work my heart flutters strangely and I want to smile, which is a rarity. I’m not sure if I have said that already.

Grangran used to say that I show my expressions in the things that I create and it is true. I’m very adept at frowning and it comes easily. Other emotions are different, though. They don’t want to come out of me unless there is a canvas and even then the feelings relay through the stroke of a brush, pour from my fingers and into the paint.

I realise that Nagisa’s been talking the whole time, but not to me. He’s on his phone chattering about my art work and ‘the next stage’. He glances at me every so often as I stare at my painting and he probably thinks that I don’t notice him. 

The phone slides back into his pocket after a few more moments and Nagisa claps his hands loudly. There is an aura of excitement surrounding him and his face is almost completely teeth. 

“It looks like you’re back, Haru!” He exclaims, patting me heartily on the shoulder. I jolt despite being much taller than him. He has quite a thump on him. 

“I’m glad I didn’t worry. I knew you’d get there.” 

I scoff because I wasn’t so sure and I’m still not. If I want to produce this quality again and again, I need to find out the answer. Once I make my spark known, I’ll be able to manipulate it to my advantage. Until then, I’m just a man who has no control over his gift.

What if this painting is a rare occurrence and I can’t do it again?

“Haru, are you listening?” Nagisa waves his hand in front of my face. I zone in and nod quickly. I haven’t heard a thing, but he’s already walking in the direction of the door. His expensive camera is looped around his neck and it’s almost as big as he is. I don’t know why he doesn’t switch to a smaller digital. It’s only used for snaps of paintings anyway. 

“Are you ready for this?” He asks me, buzzing with enthusiasm.

Ready for what exactly? 

“Sure.” I lie. Whatever it is, it can’t be too bad. We’ve just had a breakthrough so I doubt that he’ll do anything too stupid. 

“This is our next move.” Nagisa give me a thumbs up and I’m suddenly feeling more unsettled about all of this. Maybe he will do something idiotic. I step forward and say his name just as the front door shuts loudly. I hate how he needs to slam everything and I still don’t have an answer from him.

Shit. 

“Next move.” I repeat. I think that I heard him say it more than once today.

Nagisa could be talking about anything. Though it’s most likely a sale or an exhibit; maybe even the annual awards. If he thinks the piece is that good then it might be submitted for nomination against Rin’s ‘crawl of fire’. If it’s a sale, I think we’ll make a fair amount; not that I’ll be spending any of it. However, if it’s an exhibit, I’ll be absolutely stumped. I made one painting, yes. So it’s completely plausible that he’d expect it of me. I’ve made shows happen within two months and I wasn’t even going quickly, whereas most artists take six months to a year; but I used to be a prodigy before I grew up.

Nevertheless, I don’t think I’m up to it.

“No.” 

It wouldn’t be an exhibit, not when Rin’s is only seven weeks away. The papers can’t stop talking about it and it would be bad for publicity. There’s no way that I’m in good enough esteem to be able to take the limelight. I need to have a comeback first.

Does Nagisa think that this painting is my comeback?

I sure hope not.

I close the studio door so that the a/c doesn’t escape and I sigh into the silence. Nagisa was only here for twenty minutes and I’m feeling tired already. It’s past lunch time and I haven’t eaten yet. I had barely gotten out of the shower when he arrived at my door step. 

It’s been three days since I entered my studio and last night I finally completed the painting. I didn’t sleep the whole time and my paint covered sheets are a testament to how clean I was. I don’t even remember texting my manager a photo, so I was pretty surprised to see him. 

It wasn’t a bad shock, either. Last night was the best sleep that I’ve had in a long while and my mood has risen greatly. I actually feel like I’m rested and although I didn’t dream, I think that I was on the fringes of one. Or maybe I did dream and I don’t remember it. Either way, it’s closer to where I was before. 

I decide to make something hot to eat since it’s been awhile. It’s not as real as it could be, but frozen fish is about as good as it gets. I’ve been eating cereal constantly and probably need a healthy dose of iron in my diet to keep me from passing out. I didn’t so much care before, but if I can get my spark up and running then I’ll need to be strong. One painting isn’t a victory and I don’t think that two is either. I’m not fixed until I can do it again and again and again. 

I should have said that to my manager. 

I push away Nagisa’s plans because I know that he’ll call me soon enough. It never takes him long to sort things out. We’re similar in that respect. We don’t sit around when things need doing. He’s more organised than me, but I have my own ways. 

It takes me fifteen minutes to eat and drink my entire weight in cold water. I throw the bottle into the sink without filling it up even though I know that I’ll regret it later. The hot water has boiled and my second drink is ready. I guess I’m making up for lost time. The computer chair is just as uncomfortable as it always is when I plop down and I’m full to the brim, nursing a coffee in my right hand. The newspaper is sitting beside my laptop (thanks to my manager) and I’ll read it later. I don’t particularly feel like seeing Rinrinrinrin all over the art section. I’ve just had a good moment and I don’t need him ruining it. 

It takes a long moment for my computer to be up and running and I really should have turned it off while I was working. I didn’t do much of anything while I was locked away, though. 

I don’t have to sign in to tumblr today either and I see that I still only have one follower. I don’t actually want anymore. Sadly, if Nagisa’s doing his job then they’ll come eventually. 

It’s ironic that I don’t like people because I can’t seem to get away from them. I don’t like conferences or speeches and I even pay someone to reply to my fan mail. Nagisa says that it’s cruel, but I honestly can’t be bothered. Maybe I’ll start reading them properly when I get my spark back. I think I’ll be grateful enough to give it a whirl; at least for a letter or two. 

There aren’t any reblogs of my other art and suddenly I’m itching to upload my newest piece. I know that I’m not allowed to and it’s stupid to think that my one follower might actually write something because of it. Maybe he only likes things that lack life, or it was a one off. I wouldn’t know anything about rambling-writer because I haven’t read his other work. 

My mind clicks onto that thought and I’m just about to go to his page to see if anything strikes me, when something new happens. A bright red #1 appears over the top of an envelope. It sits above everything else and I can only assume that it’s a message. 

I only have one follower. 

I can feel my eyes widening and my breath hitches. This shouldn’t be a big deal but I can feel anticipation thrumming inside of me. It builds and builds as the mouse hovers over the number. My palms have grown incredibly damp with perspiration and it must be nerves. The button clicks as I take the plunge and my snail’s pace internet makes the moment drag on longer than it needs to. 

Then it appears; a notepad look alike that has words on it. It’s a blog letter sent from _him_. 

“Hi. How are you?” 

                     - rambling-writer

It’s barely anything but it’s more of a conversation than I’ve had in years. So I reply quickly,

“Hi. I’m okay.” 

                 - haru-nanase

I don’t know if there’s a rule that says I’m supposed to ask him something as well or if I need to write all that much. It’s too late in any case because the mail has been sent and I’m staring at his message again. 

Silence fills the room and I click back to the main screen. I don’t like fixating and I’m pretty sure that that’s what I’m doing. I can’t keep my eyes off the envelope now and I don’t even know if ‘Makoto Tachibana’ will reply. 

I disregard the fact that I’m horrible with names but I remembered his after reading it briefly and I continue to watch. My fingertips thrum against the desk and I jolt when a vibration runs through my hand. 

My phone is ringing and it’s only been an hour since Nagisa left. He can’t have figured everything out already. 

“Yes?” I ask, not bothering to say hello. 

“Haru! I was worried you’d be asleep.”

“Idiot, I slept all night.” 

Nagisa makes a surprised noise before he launches into business mode. It’s a serious tone that is a bit deeper than his usual lilt.

“It’s all sorted.” He says.

“What is?” I reply. I can hear the edge to my voice and I’m actually not annoyed with him today. A number 1 has appeared over the cyber letter and I’m torn. I want to click on it but I need to listen. 

“The show, Haru! I knew you weren’t listening.” He scolds and I grunt in return. I don’t need this right now, not his sass and definitely not a show.

Wait…A show?

“I’m not ready.” I tell him as soon as my brain catches up. I sigh sharply before adding tightly, “There’s only one painting.”

“Then you’ll just have to make sure that there’s more.” Nagisa chirps, like he doesn’t know how hard that will be. 

“ _Nagisa.”_ I say warningly, forgetting all about the message on the screen. I’m staring at the keyboard with a heavy frown covering my face. I can feel the wrinkles setting in with how hard I’m concentrating. My heart is still pounding but for a completely different reason. This feels like the beginnings of panic. 

I hate being right. 

“You can do it. I have faith in you.” My manager assures and I’m sure that he isn’t _that_ confident. It just means that he’s already set the plans in motion; it’s carved in stone. 

“You’ve already set it up, haven’t you?” I ask while rubbing my temples. That familiar headache is back, niggling behind my eyes, and I don’t even want to know how much time I have. 

“It’s not really a show, Haru. The new gallery in the main center is opening, remember?” I don’t and he knows it. “Anyway, I managed to snag the last spot. I’ve actually had it set up for a while, I just confirmed today.” Why would he have done that when he knew that I had no drive? Was he expecting a miracle? 

“How many?” I ask after a moment of seething. I sound tired, grumpy and I don’t give a damn. 

“Five.” Nagisa states quickly and I make another noise low in my throat. To me it sounds like a dying animal. 

Five paintings. Five! How the hell am I going to do that?

Like he’s reading my mind Nagisa assures, “You’ve already got one and you have five weeks. You’ll get a good wrap for your section, we’ll make some money and it will open up for your exhibit at the end of the year.” 

I frown even harder. 

“I didn’t promise you any of that.” 

“Haru.” Its Nagisa’s turn to sound annoyed. “It’s already booked. Do you want to ruin your reputation?”

I want to tell him to get fucked, that if he didn’t do this then I wouldn’t be in this position and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. I know it’s no use, however, and that we’ll just end up talking for longer than needed. His heart is in the right place but I can’t deal with this shit.

I growl into the phone, “ _Fine_ ” before hanging up with a harsh press. I’m breathing heavily and I’m in a bad mood now. If my manager knows what is good for him, he’ll let me cool off and think about it; not that I have a choice anyway. 

How is this going to work? I don’t have my spark and I need four more paintings in five weeks. I don’t know if it’s possible. 

I shake my head. I want to pretend that this isn’t happening, but it is. The neglected mail opens in front of me and I’m no longer excited. I just want to go to sleep instead. 

Yeah, I’m stressed as hell.

My squinted eyes read,

“That’s good. I’m Makoto.” 

                     - rambling-writer

I type my reply without much thought or feeling and it’s off into cyberspace with a loaded page.

“I’m Haru.” 

          - haru-nanase

I click out violently and I’m left with the image of loveless and Makoto’s words beneath. They stir something in me, but it isn’t enough to fix my mood or ignite my spark. 

But it does give me an idea…

I don’t care if I’m over stepping or even if he says no. I have to ask for the sake of my spark. It’s this or fail miserably and ruin my career as well as Nagisa’s. 

It’s this or nothing.

I open up the messages again and write a second one. It feels wrong and I force it away. I don’t have any other choice. 

“Will you write something for me?” 

                                         - haru-nanase

I sit back and glare at the screen. Makoto’s reply might be the thing that saves my spark and this stranger doesn’t even know it. 

He’s quick to reply and my heart is beating strongly again. It’s no wonder; I’ve never asked anyone for anything in my life. 

“Sure, Haru. What about?” 

                             - rambling-writer

I write one word and press send before rising from my chair and walking towards my studio to stare at my newest painting for a while. It won’t be productive, but it will pass the time. 

“Water.” 

    - haru-nanase

I don’t get the next message that Makoto sends or the phone call from Nagisa hours later. I feel like I’m back where I started with more pressure than ever. 

I’m going to need something big to pull this off and for a man like me it’s not going to be easy. 

I just have to remember that it’s all for the sake of my spark. 

I don’t see the reloaded page until morning or the question that Makoto has sent.

"Will you paint me something?" 

                              -rambling-writer

For twelve hours I’m oblivious to an opportunity that I haven’t considered yet. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm uploading four chapters. Here is the first :)
> 
> Proofed by - anilinsan :)

When I wake up there’s something waiting for me on my laptop. My very first canvas that was displayed for two rotations has been reblogged and there are words beneath it. I don’t read them straight away because I’m afraid. I’m not surprised that I can admit it to myself; I’m fucking terrified. I’m hinging my hope on a person that I’ve never met. We’ve only said a few words to each other, but that’s not the reason that I’m scared. By some strange turn of events this stranger, Makoto, doesn’t feel new. He feels comfortable and it’s probably due to the fact that I can’t see his face or hear his voice. Rambling-writer isn’t like Nagisa. He doesn’t know about the pressures in my life; about what he’s doing for me, just like I don’t know his.

I don’t completely realise that I’m curious, that I wouldn’t mind knowing his problems. I’ve never cared for my own issues, so it’s understandable that a fleeting thought passes me by.

These few passages that Makoto has written might be the key to the show happening, or flopping, so my fingers are pretty shaky. I let out a breath that I didn’t realise that I have been holding and the chair scrapes backwards. I want to shake myself as I stand, though it’s an action I’ve never done before. Instead, I crack my neck and thread my fingers together in a motion that stretches my hands. It’s something I do as a warm up to painting or drawing; I’m just nervous now, however.

I have everything set up. There is a blank canvas waiting for me along with all the supplies that I will need. There are more items stocked in the corner, should I finish one painting successfully.

It’s hard to think about and I card my fingers through my messy black hair. I’ve showered today and it’s still hot. I’m pleased that I installed an air conditioner in my studio; or more so, allowed my manager to hire someone for me because I’d melt otherwise.

I’m useless at anything that doesn’t involve painting. I wasn’t always and I guess that’s an over exaggeration. I’m not completely helpless. I’m actually a little handy when I put my mind to it. I can cook and fix objects that break, do things that require rational thinking. But I won’t attempt anything that takes effort like putting in an a/c or a multitude of things that are too troublesome to name. If you can tell, laziness is my down fall in the end; every single time.

Before I realise what I’m doing, my feet are moving quickly, taking me around in circles. I’m pacing the length of my apartment as I clean haphazardly with swift overzealous steps. It needs to be done but I’m moving without the intent of tidying. I’m stressing out and the crumpling litter in my shaky grasp is enough to remind me. Every so often I stop and palm the back of my neck or stretch in a way that is supposed to relieve tension.

It doesn’t help.

I’m exacerbating my own misery and I’m more than aware of it. I should just get this over with and read Makoto’s writing so that I can know if I stand a fighting chance. If I don’t, I can flop onto the couch and not move for a thousand years. Nagisa won’t be happy with me, nor will the papers, but there won’t be much that I can do about it.

“Come on.” I urge myself blandly, but with force. Nevertheless, I stand with a bag of rubbish in my hand in the middle of the room. I don’t bother walking it down to the bottom floor of the apartment complex and choose to place it beside my already half full bin. I pour myself a drink after rethinking on the coffee I was going to have. It’s a good thing too because the water is cold and just what I needed.

It’s like a jolt to the system and while my tongue is still biting from the almost freezing liquid, I stride over to the computer. I don’t sit down for another minute and stare at the words with unfocussed eyes.

My gaze rises upwards and I see the envelope. There’s a little one above it and its bright red like yesterday. I wonder how long it has been there. I didn’t even look at it when I first sat down; my head was in the clouds.

I press the card and the page loads to reveal my small collection of messages. It says something surprising and of course, it’s from Makoto.

"Will you paint me something?"

\- rambling-writer

Will you paint me something…

The words circle around my head a few times as my lips silently mouth the sentence, tasting it slowly. I haven’t ever painted for someone other than myself before. Sure I’ve risen to Nagisa’s bait, or Rin’s challenges should we come across each other, but that’s different. That’s me painting for me because I don’t like to be shown up. I hate being beaten. It’s one of my traits I suppose. I’m competitive but only in this one field. I don’t give a shit about much else.

Am I even able to paint for him? He wrote something for me, but is that the same?

I get the feeling that it’s pretty damned similar and even if I’m unable to make rambling-writer a painting, I want to.

It’s a strange feeling. It’s different to the hope that I get when I think about my spark returning. This has nothing to do with the electricity that runs through me as inspiration hits; though it must be in the same realm, because without even reading a passage I begin to feel my bones rattle. It’s just an expression, but it’s exactly what it feels like.

My insides are burning and my tongue is no longer cold; it’s like lava.

Pictures begin to pass through my mind; scenes. It’s rapid like always. The images are so fleeting that it’s easy to miss, but the feeling I receive from them is what I need. My heart is buzzing and when I click the back button, I’m looking at the reblogged post again. I notice that it’s a poem about water, just like I asked.

I read it quickly and the images grow more encompassing, quicker, more intense and helpful. I don’t really need them and maybe I should have saved it for later. Still, fuel that has been added to the fire is inspiring and before I can think about my next move, I’m replying to Makoto.

“I’ll paint for you.”

-haru-nanase

Although I thought about it before, the fact that I have only ever painted for myself, I don’t notice the significance of the sentence. Instead, I’m standing briskly. I’m not in a haze like last time and I’m completely aware that my feet are taking me towards my studio. Despite my consciousness, I don’t shut off my computer and I don’t turn off the living room a/c. It’s a good thing that I have money because I seem to waste a fair amount of cool air that I don’t use.

The door clicks shut and I feel like I’m in another world. It’s the same room as always, looking as brown and covered in plastic as ever, but the listlessness that I have felt as of late is not here. This doesn’t feel like my spark. I think its better.

Soon enough, my brush is mixing, I’m concentrating hard and with my next flourish of movement, there is colour on the page. The familiar excitement courses through my veins and I feel like I’m completely alive. When I’m like this, feeling and concentrating harder than anything, I smile. No one but Nagisa has seen me do it and not since we were teenagers. He said that it was weird at the time, but his face looked happy. He told me years later that he likes when I smile and that he wanted to watch me paint again.

I said no.

I wouldn’t notice if someone walked in now, even a person as loud as my manager. I’m in the zone. There’s nothing but me and the painting; like perfect tunnel vision. It’s promising because I’m completely coherent. Every stroke is deliberate and I move without thinking. I know what I’m painting but at the same time I have no idea at all. It’s nothing new. It comes out of me before I’m given a choice and it’s the reason that I need my spark to perform. I can’t paint to an exact picture. Well, I can, but the passion within the piece is lost because of the copy. Loveless isn’t an exact picture, but it’s a bi-product of sweat, anger, irritation and desperation. I suppose those are feelings, but they aren’t what I need.

This is better. It’s raw, exciting and the best that I have felt in my entire life. I’m not talking about this moment in particular, but painting as a whole. This moment is pretty close to being perfect, though.

The bright colours aren’t what I usually choose, especially the green that I seem to be incorporating. I go with it, though, and paint from the heart, letting my fingers guide me without question.

I paint for hours and hours and before I realise it a whole day has passed and I’m wobbling on my feet. I haven’t had anything to drink or eat and my bladder might just explode.

“Fuck.” I mutter and my paint riddled fingers rub at my face. I don’t realise how bad it is until I step away from the canvas. I can’t even look at the piece to ascertain if it’s worth anything and I definitely don’t have the sense of mind to wash my tools. I’ll have to get more but I don’t care. I let the brush fall to the plastic covered floor and I stagger to the door.

I don’t bother with food, but I do decide on a shower. I’ve been in a worse state before and can’t really fathom why I’m like this so quickly. Though I suppose that the torrent of feelings was much stronger than usual and it’s emotion that takes it out of me. I find that when it’s all said and done and my heart is completely sapped dry, so is my ability to stay awake.

I guess it’s because I spend most of my days unfeeling and then the rush is more than I can handle. Thankfully, the water is warm on my itching skin and I scrub away the sweat and colour. I use soap and shampoo liberally, but I’ll still smell like paint in the morning; I always smell like my studio. It’s like it’s seeped into my skin over the years, which is a comforting thought. However, it would be taunting if I lost my spark completely. To be able to smell paint and not produce fine work would be horrible.

I want to tell someone that I succeeded even though I don’t actually know if I have. The canvas could be full of nothing for all I know. It’s never happened before, but anything is possible. I didn’t expect to lose my spark and it was something that I took for granted for much too long. My body grew tired of me and so did my mind and I was left to remember what I had lost. It was almost as bad as imagining a life without painting but being surrounded by paint. I don’t think I’m cured yet. I’m damn near certain that I’m not, actually.

I know that tomorrow I’ll wake up and I won’t be able to do it again. Not without help.

I dry off roughly and stumble to my bedroom, naked. I don’t bother with clothes and my sheets are welcoming. I don’t know what the time is and I don’t set an alarm. It’s better to sleep while I can. When I wake up I’ll look at the painting and see if I can use it in the show or at least post it online. Rambling-writer wanted me to paint him something and I think that I did it.

It only takes moments, but I fall asleep thinking about a fuzzy blog icon and the hope that this new stranger will like what I have created. My walls are down, my heart is open, my skin is bare and I don’t care if I’m offering a part of myself to someone that I’ll probably never meet. I don’t give a shit that I care for his opinion when no other has mattered before. The others don’t have merit, but Makoto is an artist like myself. He isn’t pushing me with unspoken art challenges like the other painters on the scene; he gets something intangible from my work. If my gut is right, then it’s something akin to appreciation.

I want to know what rambling-writer thinks and I hope that I remember that fact when I wake up; and if I do, I hope that I don’t regret thinking it.

Yeah, it would be nice to see his opinion in flowing, artistic words.

Tonight I dream of nothing but the sound of full waves softly crashing against the fringes of my mind, soothing me throughout slumber and feeding my subconscious with hope and inspiration.

I don’t hear the ocean when I wake up, but I can sense it within me like I used to. It isn’t a dream, but it’s not nothing.

Something tells me that I’m not getting my spark back, but something else.

I don’t know what it is yet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by - anilinsan :)  
> This chapter may be missing some formatting like italics. I hope it doesn't change the flow too much.

My painting is full of green, blue, hues of pink, orange and off gold. It’s a beach, a setting sun, the back of a person; a silhouette half submerged in the water. The big blue laps at the yellow sand as the foam fizzles with the contact. There are small shells and foot prints along the shore. The person is unknown and completely black; like a shadow. This piece of work isn’t anything special and I’m not exactly sure what I like about it. There are elements that are indescribable even to me. The light encompasses the central darkness until the abyss has no place to exist; it’s all completely symbolic and sub textual to my own being. I can’t look away, my heart is swelling so much that it actually hurts and I don’t care if it resonates with others. My chest is tight but not like yesterday. My pulse is quick with excitement and it’s a feeling that I’ve missed. I didn’t realise when I lost my spark that many other pieces of me fell away as well. However, as I start to get them back I’m able to see. My spark defines me and without it I’m just a man who doesn’t know how to feel. It’s a truth that I’ve always been aware of, but I’ve never understood the meaning.

Now I know and I don’t want it to go back to the way it was before. Nevertheless, I can feel myself slipping back into the depths of this thing that has caught me. There is no spark down here and I’m stuck, helpless, until something inspires me and pushes me forward. I want this electricity to be a permanent state that I can call upon or expect to be there, but I know that it isn’t that easy and it’s beyond frustrating.

Looking at this painting of the beach, the setting sun and the silhouette gives me hope until I remember that I can’t do it again, not right this second. I already knew that painting another would be difficult. I’m aware of it every day, almost every second, and this too brief respite inside of my newest piece has come to an end.

I sigh heavily and turn away from the brightness that captures me. The rest of my studio is a complete mess but I’m not going to fix it. I have my new supplies that I got this morning, sitting in order on the clean countertop. The floor is bare and that is more than enough.

I guess that I should tell my manager that I have had a breakthrough. I don’t really want to since he’s the one that got me into this mess in the first place, but if I lived by that rule nothing would ever get done and we’d never talk at all. I smirk, because most days the thought of never talking to Nagisa again seems appealing. Life wouldn’t be the same without him, though, even if he’s a manipulative trickster.

My manager always gets me into trouble but he always has a reason behind it. Sometimes I think that he knows what’s better for me than I do and it’s probably an accurate assumption, too.

My living room isn’t as hot today as it has been, but outside is muggier than ever. I’ve showered twice already, once when I got up and another when I got home. I stupidly left the apartment around 10 because I had no food or paint. On my journey, I didn’t just buy paint supplies, utensils and frozen meals, though that was my intention. I also went to my favourite coffee shop and read the art section of the paper while eating breakfast. Coffee is usually my thing that I get to go, but it was efficient. I found out about my rivals latest art work and let spontaneity run the

rest of my morning. There was no point buying the daily newspaper because there is never anything new on Thursday’s. All the interesting works are presented at the start and the end of the week. The rest of the paper is boring and a calamity of words and bad events. I don’t like the horoscopes or the local happenings and I especially hate the entertainment section. The art pages are unsurprisingly the only articles that I can stomach. They aren’t pretentious and although my last review wasn’t good, I feel like the words spoke truth. The critics are annoying sometimes, but the art investigator knows their stuff.

After I ate, I made a detour and caught the train. It was a bit awkward with all of my bags, but the creative center of the city is only a fifteen minute train ride from my suburb. I went to see the unveiling of my rival’s newest piece. It’s the companion painting to a crawl of fire and if my hunch is correct, it will be about ice.

You’re probably wondering what it looks like, well I can’t say because I have no idea. I wanted to glimpse it, I think, but it was too much effort in the end; a real waste of a trip.

I knew that the crowd would be too big. I’m a VIP and if I really wanted to go ahead of the queue I could have. Instead, I just stood across the road and watched the fluttering curtain behind the large glass wall. I didn’t want to be seen by him or anyone worth anything and I wouldn’t have been able to get any closer with the massive line unless I used my name. There was a group of people so large that they had to shut off a side road, and I couldn’t even see the area where I know the art is placed (behind the curtain). I left after five minutes of watching and wondered to myself, all the way home, why I went there in the first place and how long it has been since I had a crowd like that.

It’s stupid. I’ve never cared for the multitude of people that love my work or even those that hate it, but seeing Rin receive the attention that I used to have…it caused a flutter in my abdomen that was sort like the start of a flame and it still pulses within me now.

I don’t know if its jealousy, but it’s a possibility. I wish that it was a bright burn that could push me forward and give me the drive to paint. It seems like I still only have one answer to getting my spark, a temporary fix that is unexplainable; my mysterious internet writer that compels me to put brush to canvas. Makoto doesn’t even know of his power, and he can’t find out. That would be a knock to my pride.

Thinking about rambling-writer, I sit down at my laptop and open up my messages. There aren’t any new ones and I don’t know if he is online. Still, I send him one anyway.

“I painted you something but I can’t post it online.”

\- haru-nanase

I don’t tell him why I can’t upload it (art world issues are hardly his business) and I take a sip of my drink. Then I spend the next couple of minutes checking my emails where I find a few newsletters that may be interesting and a bunch of junk from Nagisa that I delete instantly. My cup is drained and placed in the sink and I actually have the sense of mind to wash it up today.

Like I said before, this apartment is older than old and there is no dishwasher. I could probably afford more than five thousand dishwashers but I don’t want one. I don’t want anything new. What’s the point when my old things work just as well? My couch is lumpy but I can still sit on it, my desk is faded but it still stands, the television isn’t large but I can see the pictures, everything is brown and not stainless steel like the world seems to favour, my clothes are close to tattered and it all works just fine for me.

People think that artists love beautiful things and that isn’t a lie. I can find beauty in the oldest, most run down building, broken glass, a raggedy stray dog. Beauty is all in the eye of the beholder and I’m not as shallow as someone who buys something for the external beauty. New doesn’t make something beauteous. To me, there’s no such thing as ugly…or maybe everything is ugly. We all like and dislike different things, while I can enjoy looking at anything as long as it is with the right eyes.

I open the fridge and stare at the newest additions. I didn’t get much because I hate carrying heavy bags. Food is something that I’m picky about. I can eat the same thing day in and day out and not get sick of it, so I guess that’s a plus. I don’t usually branch out of my comfort zone in that regard or many other parts of my life. I actually hate a lot of food.

My phone begins to chirp and I shut the door, locking the cold air away. I’m not that hungry and it’s most likely Nagisa calling me. I suppose that now is as a good a time as any to get this over with.

“Hello.” I say. My greetings are usually a sign about my mood, but I’m not really feeling much of anything right now, which is strange. I should be happier after my win. My painting is truly something else. But I’m not fixed yet and I can’t stop thinking about it.

“Haru, are you still on board?” Nagisa asks and I sigh into the receiver out of habit mostly. He’s never greeted me before. He’s a man that always fires into things at top speed and full force. I doubt that it’s the same way with business people; he must have a front during those times, a little bit of diplomacy. But with me he’s himself. I guess that’s one of those signs that suggest that we are friends.

“Yeah…” I trail off, slumping back down in my chair. “I painted something.”

It sounds like he claps his hands or something of the similar. It’s noisy and hurts my ear. “You did!?”

I just said so didn’t I? Annoying idiot. I only think it, though.

Instead, I reply, “Yeah.”

There is a pause and a rustle of sound, like he is rushing. Oh no…

“I’m coming over.” He states and I groan audibly.

“But I can send you a picture.” I reason even when I know that there is no use. He’ll be here in half an hour no matter what.

“No but’s!” Nagisa exclaims and without so much as a goodbye, the line goes dead.

Past experience should have taught me by now that I shouldn’t have answered my phone or even considered calling him. I guess I’m stupid today.

Gazing up at the screen, I realise that rambling-writer has replied. I click on it immediately and my annoying manager falls into the back of my mind. The page loads to show me the note pad style inbox and the words that he has written.

“Do you have instant messenger? My contact is makoto-tachibana.”

\- rambling-writer

Strangely enough, I do have instant messenger. My laptop came with it and it’s joined to my email. I don’t reply to him and decide to see if I can add him. It takes me another moment to open up the application that sits at the bottom of my screen. It never closes but it is always set to invisible. I don’t like it when Nagisa tries to talk to me on there. Cat pictures aren’t something that I can enjoy in copious amounts and I get enough to my main email. I swear that fuzzy animals doing supposedly cute things is one of the only reasons Nagisa has an iPad.

I’m safe from my manager now though since I know that he isn’t online, seeing as he’s on his way to my apartment. There is no need to worry for maybe fifteen minutes at least.

I find the add contact button after I try each drop down box experimentally. I’m not used to programs like this, but I’m pretty good at rational thinking.

It takes a moment and I make sure that I’m shown as online. My only other contact is away and suddenly there is a green bubble with a name beside it.

He’s accepted my request.

Another box opens quickly, it’s small and square. His picture is on the top and mine is on the bottom. I don’t smile in the icon and generally look the same as always despite it being a really old photo. Makoto’s is different to his blog picture. He’s smiling and I was right, it looks good on him.

Then he writes.

Hello, Haru. Appears and my eyes widen. I shouldn’t be surprised; he knows my name and people say it all the time. I don’t know why it feels different, though. It’s just typed words and it isn’t like someone is actually talking to me.

Hi. I reply before clicking the little attach button. Thankfully I uploaded a picture to my email when I woke up. I wasn’t planning on calling Nagisa, but my mood changed as the day moved on. Again, because I’m an idiot.

He’s still on his way here, I remember with a frown.

I have to be quick so I click on the item that I want to send and press enter.

His internet must be better than mine because in seconds my painting appears on the screen. It’s tiny, but it still makes my heartbeat faster. I’ve looked at it so many times today. I woke up extra early just to see it and then I didn’t move for at least an hour. My thoughts cease when something appears at the bottom of the box.

Makoto is typing…

My throat suddenly goes dry and I realise that he’s seen it. This is the person whose words I need to be able to paint and he might not like what I’ve made.

Wow. This is amazing. Appears and I let out a breath that I have been holding unintentionally. His opinion shouldn’t matter so much but my fingers still run through my hair and I think that my lips have quirked, just a little.

I’m not sure what to say, so I just write: Thanks. I’m still nervous and I jolt when there is a knock at my front door. Shit, Nagisa must have caught a taxi.

Can I write something about it? Comes next and I forget about the noise around me, or more specifically the tiny man on my balcony.

Yes. I write without hesitation. The noise becomes louder and I jolt in realisation, sliding the chair backwards. I have to go.

…

…

Thank you. Makoto replies to me and it’s stupid. I should be thanking him, but I don’t thank anyone for anything.

It’s alright. I say quickly and it’s more than I usually would. I guess this person deserves a few liberties from me because of his secret ability, even if Makoto doesn’t know it.

I close the window so that my manager doesn’t see and glare at the door. He knows that people don’t like noise around here, especially the retiree upstairs, but he’s banging like I’ll never let him in and he seems ready to bring the roof down with his lungs.

I rip open the creaky wood and he smiles up at me, all teeth and blond hair glowing in the harsh sunlight. He’s instantly quiet and seemingly innocent like he never knocked at all.

“Haru! I brought you this.” He says and a paper bag is shoved into my grasp. It’s a sweet from my favourite cake shop. He used to do this when we were younger, give me prizes that is. I don’t need positive reinforcement, I’m not an animal. I’ve told him too many times to count, though, and one day I got sick of saying it. It’s just easier to take the food and eat it. It’s something I should have given up on sooner because these cakes are amazing and it’s too troublesome to go and buy them myself.

I’m not sure how Nagisa managed to get the food and travel to my house so quickly. I wonder what laws he had to break; probably a few. He really is something…

“I told you that you could do it!” Nagisa grins, gripping my shoulder in that mean little grip and I shake my head. Fingering my treat in silence, I step to the side to let him in.

If he knew the truth about my new inspiration he wouldn’t be saying that, but I can’t say he would be worried. He’s a weird one that believes in miracles. I keep my mouth shut by biting into the pastry and I see the flashing messenger icon pop up on the computer screen to indicate a reply. It’s probably a goodbye message.

I press the lid closed and follow Nagisa into art room. He’s staring happily and then smiling at me. His camera is at the ready and I know that means I’ve done well.

I hate to say it, but things might be looking up.

“Two paintings down, Haru.” My manager says, looking through the lens.

“Three to go.” I reply, walking to stand beside him. The painting looks back at me and I’m happy for this one moment.

He nods, snapping a photo of me and I scowl deeply. That photo better not show up on my blog. “You’ll do it, I believe it.”

If only we were all as positive as Nagisa.

"Yeah." I murmur as I take in the pink, blue, off gold, the silhouette and the light that steals the darkness for the third time today.

Will I really do it?

Will I succeed?

I haven’t seen my spark today, but funnily enough I haven’t been looking.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by - anilinsan :)

 

The hours bleed into a week before I realise that talking to rambling-writer has become the new normal and that I still have three more paintings to produce. The first couple of days weren’t so bad or even the ones after that. However, the longer that I wait the more my fingers begin to itch and the heavy feeling in my gut intensifies. I think that it might be something that comes with the expectation that I and the people around me have placed upon my shoulders and it’s a relatively new feeling. I’ve always had expectation, yes, but I’ve never been unable to perform. I never knew about things like stress, resentment, jealousy, desperation, need, hope and many other feelings that normal people have on a day to day basis; not until I lost my drive. It makes me feel more human and many would consider that a good thing; a humbling experience. Regardless, I’ve never looked to become more like others or wanted to know what and how they feel. I was fine with myself and everything that I encompassed. I’d even like to go back to the way that I was but I don’t think that it’s possible, not now that I know of these feelings and have experienced them first hand. 

I’m 25 years old and I’m starting to think that this is what growing up feels like.

No wonder the whole world is depressed…

I sit back in my chair and stare at the screen of my laptop. Today is a normal day and I don’t wonder if anything is going to shake it up; there’s no point thinking about things that I can’t change. Until rambling-writer has finished his piece about my latest painting, I’m pretty much at a standstill. I know that he isn’t writing it, too, because he’s talking to me. 

_Makoto is typing…_

How are you today?

_Haru is typing…_

Okay. Drinking coffee.

_Makoto is typing…_

You drink too much of that stuff.

_Haru is typing…_

How do you know?

_Makoto is typing…_

I’ve talked to you every day this week and you’ve been drinking coffee every time.

_Haru is typing…_

I like coffee.

_Makoto is typing…_

Haha, I can tell. 

_Haru is typing…_

Okay.

_Makoto is typing…_

You never talk much. 

_Haru is typing…_

No, I don’t. 

_Makoto is typing…_

:)

_Haru is typing…_

I’m sorry.

_Makoto is typing…_

No need to be sorry. You don’t need to say a lot of words to talk. That’s why I love your paintings. They say a lot. 

_Haru is typing…_

They do?

_Makoto is typing…_

Maybe I’m wrong, but I think that they say all of the words that you don’t speak normally, the things that you don’t know how to say. 

_Haru is typing…_

I guess.

_Makoto is typing…_

It’s just a hunch. Sorry if I said too much!

_Haru is typing…_

It’s fine. Don’t stress.

_Makoto is typing…_

How is your painting going? You said that you have an exhibit?

_Haru is typing…_

It’s not going. I have two paintings and I need three more. The show is held for the city, I think it’s a charity thing.

_Makoto is typing…_

That sounds really cool. If your paintings are sold, will the money go to charity?

_Haru is typing…_

I don’t know. My manager does that stuff, I just paint. 

_Makoto is typing…_

That reminds me. I’ve been wondering. Do you only paint landscapes?

_Haru is typing…_

I paint what I want, but usually landscapes. I don’t think about it. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I wish I could buy one of your paintings.

_Haru is typing…_

You don’t need to.

_Makoto is typing…_

Oh?

_Haru is typing…_

I’ll give you one. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I couldn’t! That’s too much, Haru!

_Haru is typing…_

Shut up. I said that I would. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I don’t deserve it.  

_Haru is typing…_

I don’t care. Just stop talking about it.

_Makoto is typing…_

:) Okay. 

…

…

…

_Makoto is typing…_

I’m sorry, Haru. I have to go! Work needs me. 

_Haru is typing…_

Bye. 

_Makoto is typing…_

See ya!

A high pitched noise comes from the speakers and Makoto is offline. Our conversation still looks back at me and I close the window. I don’t know why I’m talking to him; I have no real reason to. Unless he is writing, Makoto isn’t of any use to me and we don’t talk about anything of consequence. Still, I find myself sitting down at my computer and talking about nothing at all. He sounds cheerful (which is usually annoying) and I know that he has a cat and lives in an apartment up town. I don’t know what job he has aside from writing novels in his spare time, but if he lives in the upper city then it must mean that he is pretty well off. 

I’m also well off but I don’t want to leave here. Maybe I will one day, but I don’t think that it will happen for a very long time. Though, Grangran stayed here for years after she migrated. She grew old in this apartment so I guess that anything is possible and is more likely. 

Makoto is a nice normal person who is somehow able to connect with my art. He’s chatty, doesn’t seem like the creative type (even though he is) and he irritates me more often than not. I must have gained a tolerance for talkative people from my manager because it’s starting to bother me less and less. I have no idea why he puts up with me. I know that I’m rude and it’s driven strangers away in the past. I was happy about it, too. Though I don’t know how I’d feel if rambling-writer decided to up and leave. I’d lose the ability to paint, since he has my spark; but would I care any further than that? I don’t think that he’s going anywhere but my mind still asks the question. He talks to me about his day and things that upset him, how great my paintings are and what he likes about them. I didn’t think that he’d want to actually buy one and I won’t let him. Makoto doesn’t know what he’s doing for me and if he wants a painting, I’ll give it to him for free. It would make me feel less strange about using him to be able to paint. His words are the drive that I need; the fire that I’ve lost. I’m not really sure if it’s the words that set me off or something else about it. Whatever it is, rambling-writer is able to create an image in my mind that is sharp enough to push my spark into go and if I could do something for him I would feel better. 

I stand up and shut the laptop. There’s a strange feeling inside of me that I don’t understand and it’s more than a little annoying. I said before that I’ve never asked anyone for anything or given a gift in gratitude; I haven’t felt appreciation towards anyone other than Grangran. It’s been so long since I felt it, so I could be wrong, but it’s possible that rambling-writer is the cause of this odd swelling in the base of my chest. 

Whatever it is, I don’t like it. 

The day is getting on, moving into the late afternoon and I wonder why Nagisa isn’t here or pestering me. My phone is on and I’m ready like he told me to be. We’re going to see the unveiled piece of Rin’s. I don’t have to go inside if I don’t want to since I can see it through the glass, but knowing Nagisa he’ll want to see it up close. I think that he loves showing off his VIP passes. 

Just as I pull out my phone, it lights up and I realise that he has been calling. It’s been on silent this entire time. I don’t even remember doing it. 

I hate my phone. 

“Hello.” I answer. I’m surprised that he isn’t at my front door yet. There are six missed calls. 

“Haru! I was sorting out something for the cityscapes exhibit. Are you ready?” He doesn’t say sorry because he knows that I don’t care. 

“Hm. If I have to be.” I’m curious about Rin’s art work and it’s the only reason that I’m prepared ahead of time, but Nagisa doesn’t need to know that. 

“Then come downstairs, there’s a car waiting.” 

“I could have taken the train.” 

“Stop being so humble and hurry up! It closes by six on week days!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I reply, pressing the end call button just as I hear him chatter about something else. A smirk rises to my lips and it’s a brief moment of satisfaction. 

It’s over as soon as it came and I pull on my shoes. The door clicks shut behind me and it rattles loudly as I lock it. The security doesn’t seem very sturdy and I might have to get the door replaced one day. Thankfully I don’t really have anything worth stealing or anything that I consider worth stealing, aside from my paintings. I could get a lock for my studio instead but that would be too troublesome.

“Flashy idiot.” Spills from my mouth when I see the sleek black car waiting for me. I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt and shitty jacket. I hardly look the part to be getting in something so expensive, but I do.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The driver says and I note that Nagisa is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s my manager?” I question instead, not bothering with pleasantries. 

“He told me that he would meet you at our destination.” The faceless man says and I nod in reply, propping my elbow up on the side handle and staring out the window. 

The conversation ends with my intention stating actions and the car moves into drive. I feel like this is a waste of money because I’m no doubt paying for this. It would have taken half an hour with me walking to the train, but I’m not about to complain. 

Nagisa must have gone into the office to meet with someone because he’s usually always on time. I think he mentioned who was holding the exhibit, is it the daily news? It’s that or the smaller newspaper that is just down the road, so we should arrive at the same time. 

I’m right, he’s here waiting for me ten minutes later grinning from ear to ear. He’s wearing a suit and is holding a leather case that is probably my portfolio. The meeting must have gone to plan because he looks just as cheerful as ever. On days that it goes badly, we usually go for ice cream because he’s depressed. It’s an effort for me but I do it. It’s something of a tradition these days. 

“You’re here!” He exclaims, gripping at my wrist. His small frame has no problem ripping me from the vehicle and I stumble onto the sidewalk. 

“Haru.” He frowns, looking me up and down. “Couldn’t you have dressed a bit better?”

I frown downwards giving him an expression that says, yes I could have but I didn’t. He smiles like he knows that he has lost and was expecting to. Why even say it then?

Nagisa moves onto the next order of business swiftly. 

“It’s all going well. I had a meeting with the newspaper about the Cityscapes exhibit. It was all in form and exciting, too. I had to wait awhile but I met the big man instead of the coordination department. We’ve only talked once and I really like his style. You should have been there, Haru. He was so nice and gave me tea and didn’t even seem to care that his employee was off sick.” Nagisa titters as we walk and I grunt whenever he takes a breath, which isn’t often. “I was impressed. If it was you, Haru, you’d be a real grump and not show up. You wouldn’t care if poor old me was sick.” 

“You’re right.” I say quickly and his expression is worth the remark. “It sounds like you’ve got a crush.” I’m teasing, but he blushes furiously all the same.

“I like women, thank you!” Nagisa responds and it’s amusing. He’s a small guy and looks like he could go either way. The pink on his cheeks tells me that he might. 

I don’t have time to reply, and I don’t think that I was going to, when the door to the temporary showing area swings open. Red hair, a sharp face and an instantly sharper smile reveal themselves as my rival’s eyes narrow. He’s looking at me and I him and I’ve forgotten why I’m here completely. I didn’t think that Rin would be here. It’s just a temp housing, after all. 

But here he is…

“Haru.” He greets. His sharp teeth shine in the fading light of the day and I don’t reciprocate the gesture. I do say his name, however. 

“Rin.” 

“Come to see what real art looks like?” My rival taunts and I can feel that familiar boiling in the pit of my stomach. I think that I might honestly hate him. 

“Now Rin you don’t need to-” Nagisa begins, but we both cut him off simultaneously. 

“Shut up.” 

He goes quiet and so do we. I’m glaring and I’m pretty Nagisa is, too, as well as the purple haired manager standing behind Rin. I never see him without her. I’ve heard that she’s the queen of bitch and organisation. Her red glasses are off putting but they make her look confident. I think that she bothers me more than Rin, in fact. 

“Rin, we shouldn’t stay. We have a dinner to attend.” She says quietly with clipped words. 

“Yeah, yeah Rei.” He replies and Rin doesn’t look away from me. I know I’m staring too and I don’t care. “Nothing worth seeing here anyway.” 

Yeah, I really hate him. 

He turns, scoffing as he moves and begins to walk away, hands shoved into his pockets and his manager in tow. 

“My art is real.” I finally get out lamely and I know that I sound defensive. 

Rin pauses, turning slightly. “Yeah?” The woman reaches to hold his shoulder, stopping him from coming closer. He’s further away, meters, but I hear him clearly. 

“Yeah, I have a showing as well.” I declare. It’s true; he doesn’t need to know that I don’t have all of the work done. 

Still, Rin laughs contemptuously. 

“A showing?” His eyes glide over to the blond man at my side and something strange fizzles in my chest. “With Cityscapes, yeah?” 

Nagisa nods.

“Heh. Who’d you fuck to get that place?” He asks. His grin widens to inhuman proportions and with one last scoff in my direction, he’s walking away. “I’m sure you got it on your own merit.” He throws over his shoulder. It’s dry, sarcastic and even I understand that he isn’t being serious. 

“Nagisa.” I begin as soon as they round the corner. He startles forward, turning to face me. 

“Don’t let him get to you, Haru! He’s just trying to bait you.” Nagisa nods, smiling reassuringly. “You know Rin’s full of talk, it’s why you two fight every time you see each other.” 

I scowl. “Not every time.” 

“Are you sure?” He replies and I can see that his normal grin is falling into place. I guess he’s right; we do butt heads on occasion. Rin just makes me so angry. It’s almost the same feeling that his work elicits in me, only more volatile and hateful. He makes me feel like a child. 

“Let’s just get this over with.” I tell him and Nagisa bobs beside me as we walk. We don’t go inside and merely look at the painting from the side street. It’s just like I pictured; ice and fire melting, merging together to create a disfigured amalgamation and it’s absolutely brilliant. 

“Let’s go.” I state and my manager frowns. 

“Already?” 

“We’ve seen it, haven’t we?” I growl, shoving my hands into my ratty jacket and turning back the way that we came. 

“Alright. Can we get take out tonight?” Nagisa gives me his best puppy dog eyes. A 24 year old man should _not_ have the ability. 

“I didn’t say I was having dinner with you.” I frown, speaking tersely. 

“Awww. Come on, Haru! It’s Friday, remember?” 

I do remember and it’s the only reason that I let him shove us both into a taxi and pick up food on the way home. It’s why I put up with him sitting on my lumpy couch for two hours with his feet poking my thigh as he complains about a television show that he claims to love while eating overpriced food. I tolerate it because it’s Friday and I believe in continuity, not because I enjoy it…much. 

He leaves at 9 pm sharp with sleepy eyes and a rumpled suit. The portfolio full of my artwork sits on my coffee table and I sigh because that means he will have to come back for it. I bet he did that on purpose. 

“Fucking Nagisa.” I mutter as items are thrown in the bin and utensils in the sink. I’ll wash up tomorrow and although I want a coffee, it can come after. There’s a message waiting for me. 

Sitting down heavily, I don’t bother showing that I’m online. I don’t want to reply and I definitely don’t want to give Nagisa an opening to chat to me more. I see Makoto’s name and it continues to flash insistently. 

Clicking on it, I read: Haru, I wrote you something. Talk later. :)

I write back quickly: Okay. I’ll look. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Okay. 

_Haru is typing…_

I’ll be back. 

There’s a link in the chat box that directs me to Makoto’s blog. I see the url, rambling-writer, and it looks a bit strange to me now. It’s only been a couple of weeks and I’m already accustomed to his real name. I suppose it’s because I talk to him often. Still, the familiarity is weird. 

My haphazard thoughts leave me as soon as I see the very first post. It’s a long piece of prose, written for me. It doesn’t say as much, but the first line is about water and the glowing sun. I don’t feel myself leaning forward until my elbows hit the desk uncomfortably and I jolt to awareness. I control myself, gripping the edges of the wood loosely instead. 

“He gets it.” I say without meaning to. 

Makoto has written exactly what I feel and I’m not sure what to do with that information. I can see my painting through his words; the beach, the glowing sand, the foot prints, the calm ocean and lapping waves, the burnt golden sun and the pink sky. The darkness that is my lost spark is eaten by the light of the day and the blueness of the water. It’s absolutely beautiful. It might even be better than my painting. 

I can see it. I can _hear_ the water, almost taste the salt on my tongue. My eyes open and I realise that they have been closed as I imagined the calmness of this euphoric place where my troubles don’t exist and my spark works just fine. 

“Ow.” Falls from my lips and I look downward. My fingers are gripping tightly and the nail on my forefinger has snapped in half. I’m bleeding a little bit but I don’t care. 

I don’t care because my bones are rattling. 

I can feel it rising within me, whirling around and forming into unused inspiration. The words are still in my mind and unlike the other two times, I’m completely in control. The first time I was a mess, the second time I was desperate but not hazy and this time I feel powerful. I don’t need to keep the letters in a row or even remember the picture that it describes and the meaning beneath. My eyes flitter up to Makoto’s icon and I see his green eyes and dark skin and silently I’m thankful to him. 

I’ll say so when I succeed, when it’s all said and done. 

For now, I open up the chat box and write: I need to go. Then, I stand, walking swiftly over to my studio with jittery steps and laboured breaths. The door opens and closes with a click and I’m immersed in the world of my spark once more; a place where my cognitive mind has no awareness and I can allow myself to feel. 

For eighteen hours I create relentlessly and it’s glorious and exhilarating.  

This time I don’t paint a landscape.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by - anilinsan :)

_Haru is typing…_

I need to go. 

_Haru is offline._

Silence settles over my apartment after the computer beeps loudly and the green icon becomes grey. Talking to this painter is a normal occurrence now and he doesn’t know it, but Haru is one of my only friends. I have many people that I know and talk to often, but I feel like something clicks with him. It’s probably just because of his paintings. It’s nice, though, and it makes me feel guilty that I feel this way. 

Haru’s unsmiling face still stares back at me and it looks the same as his blog picture. I don’t wonder if he ever smiles or even what it looks like. I think that he looks fine like that; unsmiling and honest. 

I smile all the time, I can’t help it. I smile even when I don’t want to, but it’s not as big as when I’m happy. Lately, I’ve been really happy. Haru has done a lot for me and he doesn’t know it. He’s my newest friend and it causes me joy.

 I hope that I can help him in some way at some point. I hope that he’ll let me.

His paintings are amazing. I think that they must come straight from his heart, because the very first time that I set my eyes upon his work I was completely inspired. The swirling colours flooded my senses and the image was etched into my head forever. Words spilled forward that were just begging to be written; I needed to do it. I couldn’t control it. 

“Meow.” Miko sounds as she rubs against my bare shin. My cat is always hungry at this time of the night and I know that it probably isn’t good for her, but I can’t resist. Her little white face butts at my leg and she feels soft against my skin. 

Just a little can’t hurt. 

“Come on, then.” I murmur in defeat, sliding the wheelie chair backwards. She moves out of the way but only for a moment. I don’t leave her there because I don’t like to be tripped; Miko loves to get underfoot. She actually broke my arm once because of it. I wasn’t able to type for months and they had to get a substitute in at work. Thankfully, the paperwork was easy enough and I still went into the office. I couldn’t not go; there’s always too much to be organised and people would lose their heads without me. 

Nevertheless, it does get a bit much for me sometimes with work and my novels.

“You hungry?” I ask her and Miko meows up at me, giving me that familiar, desperate look. It’s the same expression that I receive when she wants cuddles, but at least hugs won’t make her fat. I don’t want to be one of _those_ owners and it’s hard because I don’t like to say no. 

I’ve learnt to do it throughout the years, but I still don’t like it. When I was younger I couldn’t. No wasn’t an option and people stepped all over me because of it. I was fairly popular back then but I still don’t know if it was because they wanted to be my friend or because I would do anything that they asked. University was the same as high school, only I had chosen my career by that point and it was a job that required guts. I needed to be able to say what I thought, no matter how nicely they spoke to me and not just on paper. It was a learning experience and the friends that I gained during that time appreciated my truthfulness, I think. They are still my friends and we keep in contact even now; some on a week to week basis. I appreciate everything that I’ve been through, as a man and a writer. I don’t regret any of it; not the pressured times or the days when I wanted to blow up. Without those experiences, I wouldn’t have put my pen to paper, without feeling pressured I wouldn’t have let my words free on the page. When it’s all said and done, I’m stronger and better for it. I don’t regret all the ‘yes’s’ that I’ve given and I’m in my mid 20’s now. I’ve definitely learned that some subjects need a firm hand and an even firmer mind. I’m very diplomatic, mind you. 

The cat food plops onto the small plate reserved just for Miko. She goes crazy at the smell, meowing and jumping up at me. 

I can’t help but laugh. She’s way too cute. “Wait a sec.” I smile broadly and it doesn’t stop her at all. She’s just as exuberant right up until the moment that I set the porcelain down in her spot, upon her plastic mat, and let her at it. 

“There. That’s it.” I say, scratching her on the head for good measure. She ignores me and the sound of loud munching fills the empty space. Later on she’ll try and climb all over me with fish breath and big eyes. I’ll let her because she’s my sweetheart and she knows it, too. 

People that say cats aren’t smart have never owned one, because I’m exploited _all_ the time. I’m a sucker for those big imploring eyes.

Traipsing through the large area that is my home, I take in the few paintings on my wall. They were created and shown when one of my favourite artists was at his peak, the first one I saw was when I was fifteen and it took a bit of effort to get them. I hadn’t seen many of them for years and had to do a bit of research. When I was in university and at the end of high school, I’d try and go to all of the local exhibits. I didn’t really have any reason to, I wasn’t too into writing at that point but I knew that I enjoyed it. I also knew that my words felt brighter, more real when the colours of a painting were fresh in my mind. The canvases hang in a line and are just far enough apart to take in one by one; to appreciate separately. They were pricey, ridiculously hard to get and well worth it. Thankfully, I have a few connections in the art world due to my position but I still had to do the research myself. It’s a good thing that I’m excellent with information.  

The white tiles are cool beneath my feet and I should get my slippers. There’s really no need, though, since my bed is calling. I was just about to head there when Haru replied (before rushing off) and I’ve been ready to sleep for some time. Today was busy for me. I spent the morning at home which was my expectation. However, I was called into work at the last minute because of a meeting. Someone else could have handled it, but I wanted to meet this person. I also think that the secretary panicked a little and did the first thing that she could think of. 

It’s fine now. Everything was sorted and I managed to get home by the late evening. Miko was happy to see me and I reheated my leftovers and got to writing. I thought the breakaway would be difficult, but as soon as I opened the file and saw Haru’s painting, that familiar feeling surfaced. I can’t really explain it, but to me it’s like connecting. It’s a bubble inside of me that begins in my brain and as I’m writing, it’s sapped out of me and onto my computer screen. 

I wonder if all people experience something similar, because they really should. It’s like inhaling deeply after hours of holding your breath; a relaxing experience. 

I’m definitely relaxed now. I’m so sleepy that I can’t stop rubbing at my eyes and I’m yawning every couple of moments. My bed is soft and I’m thankful that my house has central cooling. The windows in the main living area open and so do the balcony doors attached to my bedroom, but everything is shut now. No one can break it from this high unless they are from a movie or a stunt double on a crime spree. 

I smile at the thought and click my fingers when I hear Miko trill from the open doorway. 

“Come on.” I say, rolling onto my side. I place my glasses onto the side table and finger my temples a little. My headache will leave as soon as I go to sleep. With everything that’s going on I should be stressed, but I have faith that it will all turn out. My head is just a bit sore from staring at the computer screen for so long. 

I’ll have to do it again, too. I suppose I’m used to it; the staring and the headaches. 

Maybe I’ll have a holiday at the end of the year. 

It’s an attractive thought that makes me smirk because it’s not likely to happen. It would be nice to go to the beach or a place like in Haru’s painting. The light shone brightly there and it would be peaceful. 

It doesn’t take long at all for me to drift off. Tonight I fall asleep thinking about the setting sun and the blue water. Just like I thought, it’s a peaceful place. 

The alarm is noisy and I stop it quickly. I’d much rather get up groggily and slouch around until I find awareness. It’s better than lying in bed and trying to ignore a very loud alarm. I can’t trust myself to put it on snooze. I always press the wrong button and then it’s an hour or more before I’m up. It puts my entire day out of whack. 

There are things that need doing so I waste no time in stumbling to the shower. The warm water wakes me up but not as much as the ice cold spray that greets me. I can feel my wet hair matting against the side of my face and the back of my neck and it reminds me that I really need to get a haircut. My hair has always been a little unruly; really full for a boy. It’s light in colour and as I understand it the lack of pigments is the reason that naturally fair haired people have more growth, to protect the scalp from the sun. 

It’s a random fact that I found out during school and I question if it’s true. Nevertheless, it’s one of those fleeting questions that I may discover again one day and think about for a moment before passing it on to another time.

I don’t take long in the mornings and I feel fresh when I step out of the bathroom, towel slung around my hips and face clean of all stubble. I have an appointment today so I choose my nicest black slacks and button down shirt. I don’t bother with a jacket because that isn’t my style, though I do choose a pale green tie. 

Glasses on, documents ready, coffee in hand, phone and wallet on me; I’m ready to go. 

Work is a little bit away from my apartment and I prefer to drive, but it means that I have to leave earlier due to the traffic. It’s hot out and thankfully my car is air-conditioned. It saves me from melting in the first fifteen minutes of leaving the house. 

I arrive early, like usual, and smile at my coworkers that are already hard at work. There isn’t much slack here. Everyone puts in everything that they have and it’s the reason that I like it here. This was my first job when I turned 18 and I’ve worked my way up over time. I really like it despite the stress and I can go home feeling satisfied. 

“Good morning.” I wave to the receptionist and she greets me happily before answering her next call. The phones are ringing off the hook all over the place and I bet that mine will be as soon as I take it off redirect. 

It’s not quiet in my office, but it’s better than outside. I’m not a business man, though I guess I look like one; office, expensive apartment, car, suits, briefcases, portable electronics to aid organisation. It’s all part of the position but I’m definitely not a businessman. 

Sitting down at my desk, I let my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting. There are no windows in my office because I’m on a lower floor. Nevertheless, it’s a good size and has everything that I need to perform. 

“Tachibana, sir?” A voice sounds with a knock.

“Yes?” I reply and an intern pokes their head in. He’s small and looks a little afraid but we all start out like that. His short grey hair is rememberable and I realise that he’s been allocated to my section a couple of times before.

“Your 9:00 am will be here soon.” He says and I nod. 

“Just let them in when they arrive.” I smile. The intern smiles, too, and he makes an awkward gesture with his head before disappearing through the entryway. He’s probably just like I was, eager to please and just 18. It was a great time, but scary as hell. I had a leg up compared to the entrants these days. I had support from the departmental head because of my writing. The piece I gave was printed in the paper and even made the front page. It was the corner stone of my career and if I wasn’t still finishing studying they would have taken me on properly. This kid must be pretty good, though, if he’s in this division. We’re pretty picky here; not that I do any of the hiring.

There’s no point taking any calls yet because once they start they aren’t likely to stop. It’s easier to take on my meeting and then the rest of the world. The monitor turns on with a flicker and I wait for my organiser to load. 

I also open up instant messenger. I doubt that Haru is awake or online. I’ve realised that he disappears for a time after I send him something; sometimes a day, other times three. I hope that means that my writing affects him and that he doesn’t think that it’s horrible, though he asked for me to write it so that must be good, right?

The program pops to life with the regular ding and I’m surprised to see that Haru is online. It’s weird and I look at the clock. No, it’s still 8:45 in the morning. 

I type him a hello just to see. I’m not sure what he does in his free time or much about him aside from the little things. It might feel like I’ve been friends with him for much longer but in reality it’s only been a couple of weeks. I guess that it’s my connection to his art. His paintings and I have a story after all; a story that Haru doesn’t know. 

Hello Haru, are you online?

It takes a moment before I see that he is. 

_Haru is typing…_

Yes.

_Makoto is typing…_

That’s early for you.

_Haru is typing…_

I haven’t slept.

_Makoto is typing…_

That doesn’t sound very healthy.

 _Haru is typing_ …

I was painting. It happens. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Oh! Can I see it?

_Haru is typing…_

Later. I don’t know if it’s any good. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Don’t be stupid. Of course it will be.

_Haru is typing…_

It’s not a landscape.

_Makoto is typing…_

It doesn’t matter what it is, I’m sure it’s great. You didn’t have to paint something else just because I said so.

_Haru is typing…_

It wasn’t you. I didn’t mean to. 

_Makoto is typing…_

What did you paint?

_Haru is typing…_

Later.

_Makoto is typing…_

Okay, okay. You should sleep then.

_Haru is typing…_

Soon.

_Makoto is typing…_

Haha. Okay then.

_Haru is typing…_

What do you do?

_Makoto is typing…_

Sorry Haru. I’ll be back.

_Haru is typing…_

Okay.

There’s a knock at my door just as I click to the desktop and I call out. 

“Come in.” 

It’s my client and I stand quickly, rounding the desk to shake his hand. This is the third time that I’ve met with him and he’s a really nice man. I approached him some time ago about an exhibit that my company is hosting. There were only a few slots left and I felt that it should go to deserving artists so I did a lot of the foot work myself. 

It was worth it. 

“Hazuki.” I greet and he grins loftily. 

“Tachibana, Nagisa is fine.” 

“Ah, then Makoto please.” I nod, loosening my grasp and motioning for him to sit. He does quickly and before I can ask him, he’s pulling out forms upon forms. 

“You said yesterday that you would need these two samples. I don’t have the third sample for you, but I can fax it over tomorrow.” He passes them over and I look at the familiar print outs of my favourite paintings. 

“That will be good. You know that it’s just for filing purposes, anyway. How is your client?” 

His smile grows and a light enters his eyes. I’ve noticed that it happens when we talk like this. 

“Haru is doing well. I haven’t seen him paint like this in a long time. I think it might be the blog.” 

“Mm. The internet is a powerful thing.”

“I’d say so. He’s painted three things and he seems more alive. Thank you for suggesting the idea.” He’s grateful and I feel a little shitty about it because I did it for my own selfish purposes. 

“That’s fine. You’ve thanked me enough already. As you know, I’m a fan.” I reason and he nods in understanding.

“Yes! You did say that. How long have you followed Haru’s works? I’ve been with him since the beginning and he’s made some beautiful pieces.” 

I smile, because it’s true. I have four of them in my living room, all set out in a row. 

“Since I was in high school, so for almost a decade now. Though I’ve only met him once, I doubt he’d remember. We were all in school then.” 

Nagisa jostles excitedly in his seat. “I wondered why you agreed to meet with me so quickly. I thought for sure that you’d be busy.” 

“Oh, I don’t usually take these meetings. You can understand that it’s a special case.”

“Haru is special.” The blonde’s expression softens and I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to be friends with the both of them. “I’d let you talk with him, but I think its best we leave him until after the exhibit. He’s a bit of a recluse, but he would love to meet you.”

I smirk wryly on the inside because I know for a fact that he’s lying. Haru would hate to meet someone that works for the paper; someone that calls his work loveless. 

Still, I nod in reply and take the first piece of official paperwork in hand. If this goes well, Haru will be featured regularly in our new showcase museum; if he agrees that is. 

The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur and when the blond manager leaves with a strong handshake, I feel more tired than I should. It’s quiet in my office and I stare at the instant messenger symbol. 

I feel guilty for not telling Haru how much he’s helped me, that I’m a bit star struck. I will tell him, though, when the time is right. I just hope that it comes soon. 

Opening up the application, I sigh to myself as I click on Haru’s name. Our previous conversation pops up and with a grimace I reply: 

I work for the newspaper. It’s nothing special, just investigation articles and small pieces. It pays the bills.

_Haru is typing…_

I paint.

_Makoto is typing…_

I know you do. :) Sadly, not all of us can be as talented as you are. My novels sell a bit, but I need this job as well. 

_Haru is typing…_

You have talent.

I don’t know why, but I’m extremely touched by his honest words. My mobile is ringing, however, so I can only type a quick ‘thank you’ before minimising the screen. 

“Hello.”

I answer the phone and it’s the first stress of my busy day that won’t stop until I clock out. That’s the life that I’ve chosen and I’ve worked extremely hard to get here. It pays well and I’m living my dream.

“Yes, we are running that piece. No, on page 2. No, I’m sorry. I won’t budge.”

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I’m Makoto Tachibana and I’m the head of the Daily News Art Department. I write novels in my spare time and started writing when I was young. I met a young artist that didn’t care to look up and when I looked at his half-filled painting, I understood why. He helped me discover my passion and he has lost his.

Now I like helping people realise their dreams and I strive to tell the truth in my articles.

Most days being me is a really tiring job.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com :)

When I was 15 I met a boy who was the same age as me. I liked to talk and he didn’t. He exuded passion and interest. He was a brilliant painter who worked well in the park, near the water. His inspiration flowed from his body and bled onto the page, from there it seeped into my soul and gripped at my heart. I didn’t know his name back then, or anything about him. I only knew that he sat in the same spot every day after school. He didn’t wear a uniform and I never spoke to him. I watched him work on countless paintings, unobtrusive upon the old rickety bench, and my days of peer pressure and overwhelming stress became less hassling. He calmed me without ever looking my way; without glancing up from the canvas. I felt a fire within me that I’d never known before and words began to spill from my mind. I had a diary, but it wasn’t the same. Each painting I would see I’d write something about it until I wasn’t writing about the picture on the canvas, but the boy who created the image. 

Then one day the park was renovated, the water became a fountain and the boy never came back. I didn’t lose my fire but the flame burned less bright. I turned to other art; anything that I could find. Older art was nice and I created really great descriptives. Contemporary art was harder but the prose flowed nicely. It was all stuff that I found in books and at sales. 

One day I asked my art teacher where I could go to see paintings that were fresh; where I could feel the life coming off the canvas. She was surprised and I would have been too. I’d never expressed any interest in anything creative before and my classmates didn’t know that I had been keeping a diary for a very long time. Only, by that point it wasn’t a diary it was a gigantic folder full of mismatched words. I’d filled up at least fifteen journals and began saving for a laptop. 

Anyway, I took the information that she gave me and tried out all of the local exhibits. Some were better than others and it was the start of my newest adventure. It became a habit to look at the Daily News and pick out where the showings would be. Some were in community centres while others were in prestigious halls. I had to save money to attend a few but it was all worth it. Before I knew it I wasn’t doing it to cope with the stress of being my friends door-mat and I was growing stronger, starting to say no. 

I was always polite until I couldn’t be anymore. The bullying became bad because I refused to say yes. They weren’t looking at me with smiling coercive eyes and instead tried to push me. I was bigger than them but my personality was meek. 

I said no really loud, forceful with all the passion that I had accumulated over the years. I was almost 17 then and it took everything out of me. I lost friends and I didn’t know what to do with myself. 

Still, I continued on with my tradition of looking at local shows. I felt less than before and my flame was starting to dwindle. The words weren’t coming easily and my stories seemed stiff. The characters were all wrong and the message was flat. I just couldn’t do anything right. 

I decided that enough was enough. I could say no so there was no point to writing any more. I’d go to university and get a job in business like my family wanted. It would be a stable living, my mother told me, and from what I’d heard, business men made a good wage. 

I went to my last exhibit, or at least I thought that it would be my last. My note pad was in my grasp, bag shucked over my shoulder when I entered the hall. It was free so I didn’t expect much of anything. 

There were people every where, which was a little surprising. The art was abundant, more than I had ever seen. They were all water based and were absolutely beautiful. Each canvas took my breath away and suddenly my heart was beating fast and my chest was tight. 

I didn’t understand it, until I saw  _him_. 

Standing by the wayside, talking to no one and looking at nothing but a painting was the boy. He had grown like me and he looked just as apathetic as before. I was inclined to think that he was as beautiful as his creations. But that wasn’t right, because we were both male. 

I didn’t know how naive I was. 

I shook myself off and approached him. No one else was looking at him and I could hear them raving about his work, wondering who the mysterious painter was who created these pieces. Each one affected the soul differently and although the exact message wasn’t clear, they were moving. I stopped beside him and noted that he still didn’t glance my way, even with me practically staring. 

His fingers were shoved into his jacket pockets concealing the hands that were his livelihood and he looked just like any other teen; surly and unappreciative. 

But that was only on the outside. When I looked closer, to his blue eyes hidden by dark hair, I saw the way that he was watching his painting. It was like he was watching a movie, like it was speaking to him and I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw. What was inside the art work that I couldn’t see? Was it a secret code or message?

I didn’t know his name, though I did know that he painted everything in this show. I could tell. I’d watched him for over a year after all. The work was improved but it was still him all over. I didn’t know anything about him and I felt like I did. I felt like he ought to know me. The purpose of my trip was completely forgotten and I shoved my note pad into the back of my jeans beside my pen that was poking me uncomfortably. 

I watched the painting of the lake and the swallows, the trees that actually looked like they were rustling and I could imagine the words in my head again. My flame was igniting and for just a moment I shut my eyes. I inhaled deeply before letting it out and as I did it felt like a monster left me. Maybe it was something that had been growing with the absence of this art, or maybe it was my own demon that required a cure. 

Were these paintings the cure, or was it the boy? My heart hadn’t slowed and my palms were sweating. I was nervous beyond anything. 

Still, I needed to say something, to acknowledge what he did for me even if I didn’t tell him anything else. 

So with my next breath, I spoke, 

“You painted these.” I stated, and I didn’t look at him. 

“I did.” He replied. His tone was flat and everything that I expected it to be, but I didn’t think that I had wondered or imagined. No, I hadn’t, his voice just suited him. It matched the flat line of his mouth and the blue of his eyes. He was calm like his paintings and again, I thought that there was beauty within him. Beauty that I wanted to take and pen down as soon as possible. 

But I couldn’t leave yet. I had to know his name. 

“What’s your name?” I asked quickly, before I could change my mind. 

There was a long pause and he sighed like I was being annoying. He humoured me but he didn’t look pleased. 

“Haru.” He said softly, and I almost missed it with the crowd around us. 

“Hello, Haru.” I replied lamely, tasting his name on my tongue. It was a name that fit him very well; just like everything else. “You have talent.” I praised, openly looking at him. His jaw clenched minutely and I thought that he might be angry, but he showed no signs at all. 

Then he nodded just once, and responded clearly, 

“I know.” 

Haru the painter walked away and I didn’t see him for the rest of the show. I returned to that exhibit every day until it finally shut. I worked extra hours at my part time job and the day before everything finished I bought a painting. It was tiny and probably one of his older pieces. It was about the size of a normal photo frame, maybe a little bit bigger (an example piece that sat on the entry desk). I could feel the life seeping from it and knew that it would carry me well. If I never saw Haru again I would be able to keep my flame because of this. This was my guide and it would keep me strong. 

These strokes of paint were the start of my inspiration and they would stick with me. I wouldn’t take it for granted. 

I went to university a changed man. A man who could say no and still smile, still be nice and have friends. I continued to look for exhibits, especially ones with a painter named Haru and I found a few. Though, he was never there. 

Then the week of my 18th birthday I discovered a piece of untagged artwork. It was his for sure. There was no doubt in my mind. I was right too, because a card was placed in front of it at the museum I was frequenting. He’d improved even more and my flame shone brighter than before. I still had his painting and I really wanted more. 

The museum had a booklet on all of the artists and I discovered more about him and his works. I took that information with me, and a photo on my mobile that would probably get me into a lot of trouble. 

I went home, researched and I wrote. I worked for a whole year almost until I looked down and there was a thesis in front of me. It was my story and his formed into educational prose and only I could know the meaning behind it. I submitted it and my articles that I created for the school to the Daily Newspaper and before my 19th birthday I had a job. A real job. I continued to go to university for night classes but I was immersed into a new world. 

For awhile I didn’t have time for Haru and his paintings, but it would be worth it in the end. I couldn’t believe that a bullied boy who was unable say no became a man with a real job who was able to rise in the ranks, all because of a chance encounter in a park and then another at an exhibit. 

It was truly beautiful. If fate existed I was sure that it had helped me. I didn’t want to wonder too much, but I thought that maybe Haru and I were fated. 

He still didn’t know who I was but I didn’t care. I didn’t think I’d ever care. 

I was thankful and one day I promised myself that I would repay him. Each night I looked at my tiny painting, even when I bought bigger ones that he created, and I wondered when I’d get to return the favour; it was always brief but still a ritual that I couldn’t let go of no matter how creepy or weird it was. 

I realised that I might have been in love with the painter, or at least what was inside of him; his soul. I told myself that if I could look at his creations every day that it would be enough to satisfy me. His paintings were the ignition of my own art and I promised that it would be my time soon. 

That was a long time ago and some moments are still fresh in my mind, while others grow muddled and used. I can’t forget about the painting I bought though, because it’s right in front of me when I work at night. I’m looking at the small canvas with a back support right now. It’s beside my computer and I can always see the sepia tones out of the corner of my eye.

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought about my past and how I met Haru and lamenting on it again I find that I still believe that we’re fated; in some way at least. Now that I know more about him I think that we’re connected even more and I feel like a real creep for thinking it. I don’t want to be a weird, but I can’t help my feelings. I’m just so appreciative and I was content to stay by the way side, interlinked without outright acknowledging it. Then I saw a scan of Haru’s painting upon my desk. I knew right away that it was his but at the same time it wasn’t at all. My heart hurt for him and I realised that it was my turn. 

I wrote the article and called the painting loveless. It’s still a beautiful water canvas like always. I now own it, in fact. I contacted the submitter, Haru’s manager. I asked to buy the piece and to meet with him. Of course, he agreed. I was delighted to see how happy he was. He sold the painting with no qualms at all and said that Haru didn’t care where it went. I don’t know what came over me but I had to ask. I requested that Haru’s paintings be shown in the exhibit that I have been pushing forever. It will raise awareness in the community, help boost our sales and give something back to the little people. Nagisa didn’t think that Haru would be up for it, so I pushed him. I felt guilty because I have been under pressure before. Nevertheless, when he finally agreed I was happy. I  _am_  happy. Haru made a blog like I suggested, though Nagisa didn’t tell me. It was completely by chance that I found loveless. I was looking through the art tags for inspiration because tumblr is my newest source of fire, when I saw it. I followed Haru straight away and held back from messaging. Loveless stared at me and I it and I couldn’t help but write about it; even something small. 

Yeah, I own loveless. It’s a beautiful painting. Still, it isn’t Haru. Whenever I see it in my living room, I see the life that he has lost and I want to give it back to him like he did for me. 

It’s always baffled me that I can find so much in a painting; so many words and feelings. I don’t know if other people feel the same, but without these works of art I think that my life would be very different. I wouldn’t want that either. I’m talking to Haru daily and it’s better than anything I ever expected. I don’t think that I’m allowed to ask for more, and that’s fine. These paintings bring me life and the person who created them does as well. Without Haru, it’s meaningless. 

A ding sounds and I’m pulled from my own head. The report that I have been working on is pretty much finished and I just need to edit it before I go to bed. Tomorrow I have to look over next weeks proposals and it’s going to be a busy day. I feel like I’m allowed a break. 

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and open up the instant messenger box. 

‘Hello’. It says.

  _Haru is typing…_

I’ll let you see my painting now. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Really? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. 

_Haru is typing…_

No it’s fine. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I’m glad. How are you?

_Haru is typing…_

Fine. Are you writing?

_Makoto is typing…_

Just a report for work. It’s nothing special. Maybe I could write something about your painting?

_…_

_…_

_Haru is typing…_

If you want to. You might not like it. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Oh?

_Haru is typing…_

I didn’t mean to paint it. It’s not like normal. I don’t even know what it is.

_Makoto is typing…_

That sounds confusing. Can I see?

_Haru is typing…_

Yes. I took a photo. 

_Haru has sent you an attachment. Do you want to accept?_

_Haru is typing…_

See it’s just people. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Where is this?

_Haru is typing…_

It doesn’t exist anymore, but I used to go there sometimes.

_Makoto is typing…_

Oh. Okay. 

_Haru is typing…_

You don’t like it.

_Makoto is typing…_

No! It’s not that, I’m just…surprised. 

_Haru is typing…_

Why?

…

…

_Makoto is typing…_

I don’t know.

Pulling away from the screen my elbows hit the desk and I card my fingers through my hair. My glasses fall upon the varnished surface and I stare down at the keyboard for a long moment. Haru hasn’t replied and once my breathing has returned I slide my thick rimmed spectacles back into place and press on the small icon of the painting. The image covers the entirety of my screen and I’m not sure how to deal with it. 

The painting is somewhat abstract where the smaller details are not important. The swish of the brush is evident and the colours are vibrant. It’s a scene, and there are more than just a few people littered about. 

It’s a painting of a river bank, green grass, the edge of a play ground, people walking along the path, a boy with black hair facing a canvas; a painting within a painting. It’s where he used to work when we were younger but that’s not what shocks me. 

What does is the boy sitting on the nearby bench with a book and a pen, facing the painter. His face is obscured and he isn’t particularly rememberable. 

But I remember.

Haru has painted me and he doesn’t even know it. 

Which means that he remembers a part of me, or at least the me that used to write near him. Suddenly, my heart feels really strange. 

Like before, my fire is blooming and I know that I have a big day tomorrow. Nevertheless, it’s rising. The words are forming in my mind and I need to act quickly to get it on the page. I close the painting, take a deep breath and see, 

_Haru is typing…_

Makoto?

_Makoto is typing…_

I’m here. I like it. 

_Haru is typing…_

Okay.

_Makoto is typing…_

I want to write something about it. 

_Haru is typing…_

That’s fine. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I’m going to start now. I’ll talk to you later. 

_Haru is typing…_

Okay. 

I log out of instant messenger and open up a new document. I write for hours until a short story sits before me and I don’t know if I can show it to Haru. It’s about a painter and a boy without a dream. It isn’t my story but it’s pretty damn close. 

I think that I’m just being paranoid. Haru may have painted me but it doesn’t mean that he remembers. The other people were there after all. 

I go to sleep with a head full of rationalisations with only hours left until I have to get up. I force away any and all hopeful thoughts and avoid the strange tingling in my chest. 

Despite myself, I dream of the past and a future that I might want. 

When I wake up something inside of me murmurs to avoid Haru, and although it hurts I think that it might be the best choice; just for a day or two.

I sigh heavily and climb from my bed, frowning in a way that hurts my head. My chest still tingles and I feel guilty. 

I promised myself that I would be content. 

This isn’t what content feels like. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by :) anilinsan.tumblr.com

The sun floods in through the window when I wake up. It’s harsh and I know that it’s early because of the intense colour. I don’t feel tired but I yawn anyway and stretch out my limbs. I don’t feel particularly cheerful, but then I never do so it isn’t surprising. Today will be the fifth day that I haven’t painted something and for some reason I’m not upset. I haven’t talked to my manager and as far as I know the deal is still on. I’ll produce five paintings by the deadline and show it in the city. It will be relatively small to what I’m used to but I haven’t been at my best. From what my rival said it’s a pretty prestigious exhibit. I looked it up and he was right. Artists have been clamouring for places and I bet that he was, too, but they were only accepting so many. It’s no wonder that he was bitter because his work is good; really good. I know it and he does, too. Mine has been pretty shit prior to these couple of good weeks so I’m surprised that I got in. Maybe Nagisa showed them some of my older work, though he hasn’t been known to take the most obvious route. I hope that he hasn’t done anything illegal again.

Either way, Rin doesn’t think that I’m worthy and I feel a little bit the same. I’m painting again and it’s got life, excitement like the old days, though it’s not completely the same. There seems to be a shift in tone within each piece and I can’t quite put my finger on it. On the outside, the landscapes and rolling riverbeds look like any other good quality painting that I’ve done. However, when I look closer I can see it; this new buzz beneath the layers. I can’t say what it is or why it’s there but it could have to do with the fact that I don’t have my spark.

Yeah, I’m still spark-less. I figured you’d guess.

I’m using the inspiration of a writer to kick start my drive and it’s been working well, except I haven’t talked to him for the past couple of days. He said that he was going to write after I showed him my newest painting. Usually he comes online in the mornings and I was awake early the next day by chance. Did I say that I’ve been sleeping better? He stayed off instant messenger up for the rest of the day while I played solitaire on my laptop and sighed intermittently. I’ve said it before and I will again. I don’t like television and I don’t really like computer games, either. I like eating and I’m good at cooking but I don’t like the effort that it takes. I’ve been grilling the same type of fish all week because my manager says that I need to eat more. He’ll probably be annoyed if he finds out, but I’m not going to tell him.

Anyway, Makoto came online and I didn’t really think anything of it.

_Makoto is typing…_

Hey, are you online.

_Haru is typing…_

Yeah. Playing solitaire.

_Makoto is typing…_

I’m going to be busy for a while with work.

_Haru is typing…_

Okay.

_Makoto is offline._

Like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time. It’s been five days and I haven’t been on the computer much, but I know that he hasn’t been on at all. I figure that he might be working on his book and it would be interesting to see. Maybe I could get a spark from it.

With the rate that I’m going I’ll need to get to work soon. I have less than three weeks left and my manager will kill me if I don’t come up with anything. If Makoto doesn’t show me his newest piece today or tomorrow I suppose I’ll look through his older work. I don’t know what I’ll find there. What does he write when it isn’t about my art?

I’m curious, more than I ought to be, and I manage to brush it off as I pull myself from my bed and trudge towards the washroom. I’m handing my finished paintings over to Nagisa today for him to take to the city and I’ll give him the other two when they are completed. I guess they want to verify my work. It’s odd that they’ll accept the other two so close to the cut. Usually they need items a lot sooner in advance. They don’t know that my work isn’t going to be shit. Hell, I don’t even know that much.

I hope that Nagisa will bring me the paper because it’s the start of a new week, meaning that the Daily News will be interesting enough to read and I don’t want to leave the house. I’ve asked him to buy a subscription to be delivered but Nagisa says no every time. He thinks that it’s important that I get out of the house even if it’s only a fifteen minute walk.

He’s probably right. I don’t care what is healthy or unhealthy, though. I do what I want when I want it. I always have and I don’t see that changing.

It’s not like my appearance matters any; if I get unhealthy. I’m not a painting. I push my sleep pants past my hips and throw them in the hamper. I can see the material stick over the edge before it falls onto the tiled floor. I don’t pick it up; I just watch it for a second. Then, I turn to the mirror. It’s somewhat of a ritual to have this daily observation, even when nothing ever changes.

My face is set into a permanent non expression and my skin has never been darker than it is now. I’ve been bigger before. I’ll admit that I’m incredibly thin. My eyes look a bit different, though, and I’m not sporting the same dark circles that suggest sleep deprivation. I know that I’m doing better than I have been in a long time and although I feel nothing most days, there are times when other emotions creep in. In the past, when I thought about a painting that I created, I felt nothing at all. It wasn’t the same as looking at the work and seeing the feelings and time put into it. I’d look at the painting and remember all that I felt in that moment. Then I’d walk away and it would be over.

Now, when I close my eyes, I can envision my creations. I can see every last detail and know exactly what I felt and it brings a bubble to the centre of my chest. I don’t know if it’s normal but it’s a relaxing moment that I’d like to keep. For a person who isn’t able to feel much at all, it’s a lot.

I bet Makoto feels it all the time. Nagisa probably does, too. All emotions, not just the bad ones. I’ve had plenty of those since my slump began.

Is it presumptuous to think that things might be okay now? Probably. I’ve never been this hopeful before and I can hazard a guess as to who is pushing me in that direction.

Sighing heavily, I force Makoto from my mind, right to the back of my head where my other questions surrounding him reside. I step beneath the spray and mentally prepare myself for my manager’s arrival.

It’s almost 9 am so it won’t be long now.

I’m right, as soon as I flick the water from my eyes and wrap a towel around my waist there is a loud bang at the front door.

“Haru!” He calls and I pad out to the living room. I open the door to see him smiling up at me and he looks even less annoying today.

“I didn’t think you’d answer.” Nagisa grins and I make a noise in the back of my throat.

“Is that why my phone has been going off since 7?” I question dryly. His smile just grows and I step to the side to allow him and his massive lot of equipment in.

“Why do you have four when only three are done?” It’s a question but it sounds more like a statement. I do that.

“This is for when you finish your next one. I bet it’ll be real soon!” My manager nods vigorously. “Can I see what you have?”

I look to the side and my semi contentedness begins to sap from my form.

“I haven’t started it.”

He frowns deeply, like I’m being irresponsible again. It’s not a new look, it’s just something that I’ve never seen in this situation before.

“Why haven’t you done anything?” Nagisa asks. He doesn’t wait for my reply as he heads toward the studio. Opening the door, his head pokes inside as if confirming my statement true.

“You shouldn’t be lazy. We don’t have much time, Haru.”

“When do they want them all?” I’m a little curious. I’ve never asked about an exhibit before and it must surprise Nagisa because he’s suddenly looking nervous.

“I told you, Haru. Five weeks total so you have just less than three left. You’re doing pretty well. You’ve only got two left.” He explains. His words are quick but I can’t see that he’s lying. Though, I’ve never been good at facial cues.

“Hm.” I nod, walking to the kitchen. I set about making us both something to eat because if I don’t he’ll eat all of mine and then I’ll be too lazy to get anymore.

“It’s okay. You’ll get it done.” Nagisa assures, coming up beside me.

I offer a nod in reply and don’t tell him that I wonder if I will. He still doesn’t know that I don’t have my spark.

The hot water boils and the blonde chatters while I prepare. I wonder how my manager will react if I tell him that I can’t paint without Makoto’s writing; that Makoto hasn’t been online. He’ll probably flip.

“I like the newest painting,” enters my consciousness and I realise that Nagisa isn’t beside me anymore, but calling out from the studio.

Leaving the instant coffee, I follow him.

“It’s the old park, isn’t it?” He asks and I nod silently. I’m still not dressed and it’s cool in here. I have to keep the a/c on because the heat is bad for the paintings.

Nagisa looks wistful, like he’s imagining the real place. “You used to go here every day. I met you there, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe you got everything down, though. There’s just something about it that gets me.”

“You’ve never talked about my paintings before.”

Nagisa laughs. “You’ve never stayed tuned in long enough to listen. I’m always talking about your paintings.”

Oh. I guess that’s when I’m filtering him out.

He doesn’t look sad but there’s an undertone in his voice that makes me feel a little guilty, so I keep listening.

“I didn’t think you ever looked up from the lake, but you remembered it all. Did you ever paint it?”

He’s talking about the lake I think.

“No.”

“So why did you go there?”

“I liked the water.”

He nods like I’m making sense.

“I guess that’s why I went there, too.” He pauses, leaning in closer. “You see that boy?” His finger pokes out but he doesn’t touch the canvas.

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember him? He used to be sitting there every day when I’d come drag you home. He’d be writing furiously and you’d be painting.”

“I don’t remember.”

Nagisa smiles strangely. “I wonder if he remembers you…”

This is stupid; it’s not helping anyone. I make a noncommittal noise and move away from the park picture. It’s a nostalgic painting and it always makes me feel a little funny on the inside. I don’t know how I remembered and like always it wasn’t until I was finished that I knew what I had created. There’s no point talking about it. It’s just one of those weird occurrences.

I don’t see the look of realisation cover Nagisa’s face or hear the Oh that leaves his lips. I’m already in the kitchen pouring hot water into my mug and stirring his super sweet coffee at the same time. I like mine bitter and I don’t use sugar much. I keep it here for him.

“Haru.” He sounds after five minutes. “I just realised how late I am. I really need to get these out.”

My eyes narrow and when he approaches I hand him his coffee. He downs it faster than he should and I bet his tongue is burning. The porcelain clinks against the bench and he looks at me expectantly. The suspicious aura falls from him and he looks big and bright like before. It isn’t often that Nagisa looks his age because of his buoyant personality, but during his deeper moments I’m able to see something else. It’s a feeling, I think. Maybe it’s something I’d even like the paint. I’ve never consciously thought about it until now. I’m not sure what’s inside my manager’s head and his brain probably never stops. That’s what it’s like to be a real genius isn’t it?

I wouldn’t know because my mind is usually blank, aside from my useless wanderings. Even when I’m painting I’m not aware of what my thoughts are. They are there, but they aren’t at the same time.

“Help me bring these down to the car?” Nagisa suggests hopefully and I pause mid sip. “Come on, Haru. I want to get there soon.”

I sigh then, taking a big gulp of the black liquid and regret it instantly. I place my mug beside his and push away from the bench.

“I’ll get my pants.” I tell him and he makes a noise of approval.

It takes fifteen minutes for everything to be in its rightful place. Transporting paintings takes a bit of care and concentration but Nagisa hasn’t messed it up yet. He’ll take it to wherever it needs to be and I won’t talk to him for a while; hopefully.

I need to paint and I can’t have him on my back because it just makes everything harder. He knows that and I don’t think that he’ll press me unless he’s suspicious. He can’t be, though, since he thinks that I have my spark again.

I don’t have anything.

When I lock my apartment door and toe off my shoes, the first thing I look to is my laptop. It’s the time of day when Makoto is usually online, so he might be here today.

Tomorrow will be the sixth day.

I sit down, log on and see that his icon is grey. There are updates on his blog but nothing of consequence. I can’t see the new piece of writing anywhere and there are no random blog messages for me.

I push away the darkness that threatens to fill my stomach and I click on his previous works link.

If I can’t talk to Makoto then I’ll just have to find something of his that speaks to me. There are over twenty pages of stuff so I’m sure to find something.

It takes me the rest of the day to look through everything and I do. I read through piece after piece after piece. Everything is stirring but not in a way the pulls a spark from me. I can’t help but look down at the instant messenger icon more than I should even though I know that he isn’t going to come on.

I’m focused, though. I’ll find something, even if I have to read everything that he’s ever written.

Its hours before my distracted mind finds a piece of writing that calls to me. It doesn’t say when it was written but the style is a little different. The tone reminds me of what he wrote for me. I click on the tag that is labeled at the bottom to see if there are any other items like this.

There are. There’s over forty pages. They aren’t included in the previous links page and all seem to be small pieces of writing. Some look like journal entries, while others are poems and then a few that seem to be stories.

The first one I decide to read is on page ten and it sends a nostalgic jolt through me. I read it again, just to make sure and before I realise it there’s something bubbling within me.

Yeah. That’s it. This is the spark.

It flows through my body and rattles my bones. I begin to feel nervous and full of anticipation. It’s happening when I didn’t think it was possible.

Suddenly a ding sounds and I jump in my seat. The feelings sap away completely and I’m left with another kind of suspense. My eyes quickly search out the instant messenger box and I open the window. It’s an advertisement from the instant messenger team because I’m a free user. There isn’t anyone online; Makoto hasn’t logged in.

I gaze back at the prose and read it again; once more and then another.

The bone rattling feeling doesn’t come back and the suspense has turned to disappointment. I’ve never felt this before, but there’s another bubbling in my stomach and it feels dark.

“Shit.” I growl into the air, gripping the edge of the tabletop. I’m really frustrated now.

How am I supposed to work if I’m able to lose my spark so easily? My mind is too busy and it needs to stop. One minute I’m fine and stress free, the next I’m going crazy. I’ve never been like this before and I don’t know what to do to fix it. I knew that I was being too presumptuous. I should have known that things only become better so that they can become worse.

I don’t know if I’m going to make the deadline like this and I’m not even focused on that problem. Instead, I watch the messenger application intently and glare at the screen.

What’s going on with me?

With a furious click, solitaire opens and I’m no longer feeling okay. Whatever this is, I don’t like it. It’s like anger but empty.

I’m really starting to think that I’m being avoided.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com :)

It’s bright in my office as the fluorescent light shines down on me harshly and it unsettles my busy mind. I was ten minutes late, which isn’t like me at all. I barely got out of bed in time and I still feel absolutely dreadful. I said hello to everyone on my way in, took my appointments from the intern, Nitori, and poured myself a cup of coffee from the break room. It’s an addition to my schedule but today I feel like I need it. Yesterday’s stress is gone now and I just have to focus on that of next week. Unfortunately, a break from the newspaper monotony and standard havoc leaves time for me to dwell on my personal life; which is a mess and should be labelled as non-existent. 

For the last five days I haven’t been sleeping very well and it’s one of the reasons that I barely reached the deadline for work. Nevertheless, Monday’s art section of the Daily News went out on time and no one needs to know about my trouble. I’d look like an idiot if they knew the cause because here at the company we are encouraged to put our work first. It’s not so much a rule as it is needed for a job like this. There are people with families and all of them have a finely tuned routine brought about by trial and error. My routine is completely shot and it’s the reason that I’ve been drinking so much coffee. Thinking about the copious amounts of hot drink reminds me of someone briefly and I push it away as I remember the last forty eight hours and how I’ve been working like crazy to get my pieces to the printer. I made it by the skin of my teeth, but I’m still disappointed. I’m not sure if what I’ve written is worth reading. I read it again and again but my concentration hasn’t been sticking. I know that it will be error free and that’s not the problem. It’s what’s beneath the words that count.

 I don’t know what happened. I wrote the short story, about the boy and his sad tale. In the end, he didn’t get to be with the one that he loves. The boy passed him by and he was left to remember and I’m absolutely stupid for writing something like that. I’m not a romance novelist and I’m just exacerbating my own misery. It bothered me to the point that my flame has run out. I can feel it deep inside of me but there is a barrier protecting it and every time that I think that I’m almost there, it’s just a hair’s breadth away. I didn’t want to feel discouraged about my lack of flame. I didn’t want to think about why it has lessened because then I’d have to come to terms with another fact; something that I’m still avoiding, something close to home. 

To help myself, I’ve been looking at my paintings; Haru’s paintings. Yes, I can say his name it just hurts a little more each time. Hearing ‘Haru’ in my head, the way that he said it the first time is enough for me to realise how stupid I have been; how naive I was to think that I could just love his art. I’ve never really thought about being gay before and I don’t know if I am, but I must be. I have never allowed myself to think of Haru like that, but I know that he’s beautiful. I haven’t been interested in people, either. Friends have set up dates for me but I was just being polite when I accepted. Until now I’ve been content to be immersed in my own world, in my goal…in Haru; who is probably straight and will think that I’m disgusting. I’m in the art world, but I know how it goes. He’s brash and insensitive and I know that he’ll tell me directly what he thinks of me, if I ever speak to him again. I want to but I don’t know if I should. 

I want to say that talking to him was a mistake but not a single part of me regrets it. It’s not his fault that I’m not strong enough; that I’m creepy. I want to read his words and see his art. I want to hear his voice again. I still remember it; just. It’s probably different now. It’s been years. 

I’ve looked at the photos that he’s sent me. I read through my old pieces and tried drinking tea. No matter what I do I’m unable to make the words flow right. I told you that I can’t concentrate, I think. I can’t even remember. My head hurts and although I’m not prone to getting signs of disturbed sleep, I have black circles beneath my eyes and for some reason my hair seems to be perpetually messy. I’ve combed it twice today to no avail. 

I’ve been going to bed at the right time because writing is too hard. My stomach begins to twist and then I look down at the instant messenger before gazing toward my first painting; the small one that kept me strong. I don’t feel strength, though. I see it and I feel guilt right down to my toes. I can’t do anything but feed Miko and go to bed after that. 

I don’t think that I’m sleeping very well. I don’t know. I’m pretty sure. 

I have been dreaming about talking to Haru on instant messenger and I’m too weak to sign out altogether or block him even. I told him I’d be busy with work and I was. Originally, I decided that I’d give myself some space to get past whatever this is. I haven’t made any progress. If anything, my attachment to Haru has grown even stronger and I can’t talk to him like this. 

My life can’t be just him; I know that it’s not, though he’s a big factor without even trying or having knowledge. Now that I’ve drunk from the river I don’t know if I can walk away only being able to remember the taste in the paintings that I procure; see what Haru has created and know that there is a person underneath.

It would be all well and good if he was only the boy from a long time ago. I think…I think that this is more than that now; he means more to me. 

He’s not the boy or the mysterious artist. He’s Haru.

Sighing heavily, I press away from my desk and look down to my empty cup of coffee. I shouldn’t have any more despite how tired I am. I don’t want to grow dependent; it’s something I’m good at doing. I think bitterly. 

I shake my head and try and rid myself of all these negative feelings. I haven’t felt this way for a long time and I don’t like it. 

It doesn’t help that I’m especially on edge today. Haru’s manager, Nagisa, is going to bring me the paintings that are finished. I told him last week that he can give them to me even though we have a separate division for collecting. I should have changed the meeting and I can’t really tell you why I didn’t. I don’t know myself. 

Except I do know. 

I’m unable to ponder on it because a knock sounds and I’m looking up from my desk, calling out to the person on the other side. 

“Come in.” I say croakily. My throat’s dry and some water would be really good. I’m about to ask Nitori for some, but instead of grey, a mop of blonde hair pops through the door and my stomach twists even more. Hazuki Nagisa isn’t meant to be here for another two hours, but here he is. There is one painting in his grasp protected by a standard transportation cover and he places it down carefully. 

I realise that he has said hello already; that he’s been talking this whole time. He’s smiling at me and waving his hand in front of my face and I wonder loudly inside my head, why am I being so rude?

My hair moves as I shake it out and I smile as brightly as possible, focusing completely on him. 

“Nagisa.” I address, standing to shake his hand and he waves me away. 

“I think we’re past that.” He grins, catching my eyes. I nod and I sit back down just as he does in the chair opposite me. His elbows lean on my desk and his smile doesn’t falter. I feel like there is something within it and it’s a little unsettling. I feel like he’s looking through me. 

“You’re early.” I go with. “Not that it’s a problem! I’m happy that I wasn’t busy.” I’m grinning like a madman, words running all together and he’s still watching me knowingly. 

He ignores my word vomit and tells me, “I had some free time and Haru wasn’t being very interesting so I thought I’d stop by. I was wondering about something you said the other day. The other paintings are waiting in the car out front.” 

“Ah. I’ll get someone to get them.” I nod, picking up my desk phone. “What car is it?” 

“Limousine in the loading bay.” He replies quickly and I arch an eyebrow. Nagisa may be unloading something but I don’t think that that is what the area is used for, especially with such a fancy car. Does he always ride in style? 

His smile becomes a smirk and I know that I’ve been caught. “Haru gives me a travelling allowance.” Nagisa supplies, leaning back in his chair. “He doesn’t know how much it is, though.” He follows up with a chuckle. 

Their relationship seems closer than most managers’. I’ve wondered briefly about Nagisa and his role before, but now is not the time as I dial the front desk swiftly. 

“Yes. The limousine.” I tell the receptionist and Nagisa supplies me the number plate without issue. I read it back and the woman on the other end confirms that someone is on their way. “Thank you.” I offer before hanging up.

“Do you have many meetings today?” Nagisa asks after a moment’s pause. The silence feels awkward and I’m usually pretty good at rambling through it, though for some reason my brain doesn’t want to work.  

“No. We’ve had a busy couple of days. Monday is the biggest issue for my team.” I admit and I definitely do not glance over at the ‘ding’ from my computer. 

I’m pulled back to the conversation quickly and Nagisa is still watching me with that odd vibe. “Haru only reads the paper on those days. I bet he sees your writing often.”

“Ah, of course he does.” I reply, willing my now rapidly beating heart to slow. I know that Haru reads the paper. He’s a high profile artist who relies on the public to make his money. So why do the words affect me so much?

“Mm. I left him with the Daily News when I left.” He replies absentmindedly, but something tells me that it’s not so off hand. 

I can only nod dumbly in reply and I’m worried that the silence is going to drag on again. It doesn’t because he’s speaking and I wonder if it’s a good or bad thing. 

“I was thinking that you could meet Haru now. He’s doing pretty well. It’s what I wanted to discuss.”

“Oh. I don’t…think that it will be necessary.” I brush off, sounding a little broken but nothing noticeable. 

“Yes. I suppose you’ll meet him at the show.” Nagisa responds and it might just be me, but it sounds like a threat. 

“Nagisa, is - is there something wrong?” I muster up my courage and he shakes his head. 

“I just thought that you’d be excited. Aren’t you a fan?” 

“Yeah, I am.” Shit. My palms are sweating. This is like an interrogation and it’s probably all in my head! “I’ve admired his work for some time.” 

Obviously it was the wrong thing to say because Nagisa asks quickly, “How long?” 

“Since university.” I lie and it doesn’t feel good. 

“I see.” Nagisa gives me a good natured expression but it still cuts me to the core. I’m jumpy and tired and I just want to be left alone. It’s not a possibility in this field, though. Although this encounter is somewhat familiar I still need to be professional. 

Thankfully, I’m saved by some merciful being because Nagisa stands and straightens out his suit jacket. Every time I’ve met him he’s been dressed extremely well. 

“Well, I must get going. Things to do, people to pester.” He nods, looking pleased. “I’ll leave this with you.” He points to the large protected item. 

“Thank you. I’ll get it where it needs to be.” I stand and this time we shake hands. 

He turns and walks to the door, opening it swiftly. I sigh quietly but it’s premature. Nagisa swivels to look me in the eye. 

“Take a look at the painting, yeah? It’s always interesting to see something that you’re in.” 

The door closes with a click and I swear that I hear him chuckling on the other side. My eyes feel like they’ll drop out of my head and suddenly I realise exactly why he was being so strange. The whole conversation, he was building it up to that. That man that just left my office looked like Hazuki Nagisa but I swear that he is ten years older. No wonder they call him a genius.

I plop back down and my arms fall beside me. My body is tired and I think that I’m in shock. 

It takes a moment for me to think, I’ve been found out. 

Nagisa knows me and not the me of now. He remembers the me from the park; the one in the painting. 

I take in a deep, shaky breath and cuss as I exhale. I’m not usually one to swear but it lets out the tension. My heart is still beating quickly and my stomach is still unsettled. However, by some strange turn of events, I feel a bit better. 

Someone knows about me and my link to Haru and that’s not a good thing. I don’t think Nagisa would tell him, though what happens if he does?

I shouldn’t feel lighter (like a load has been taken off my shoulders), but I do. 

Without thinking I run my fingers through my hair, messing it up even more. I crack my knuckles in a nervous gesture and I turn to the computer. It takes only a second for the instant messenger to pop up and then I’m looking at it; the little green button beside Haru’s name signifies that he is online. 

I wasn’t going to talk to him. I was going to avoid him and none of that matters as I press on his name and see the various messages that he has sent me over the last five days. They are all just ‘hello’s’. It’s nothing special, but it warms my heart and tightens my chest. 

I don’t know what I’m doing when I type; I’m acting completely on instinct. Afterwards, I might even regret it.

Haru, can we talk?

Haru is typing…

Yeah, I’m online.

Makoto is typing…

No. I mean, can we meet up?

…

…

Makoto is typing…

I’m sorry that sounded weird. 

Haru is typing…

No. We can. 

Makoto is typing…

Oh. Okay. 

Haru is typing…

Are you at work?

Makoto is typing…

Yeah. 

Haru is typing… 

I can meet you afterwards. 

Makoto is typing…

Are you sure?

Haru is typing…

Do you want to?

Makoto is typing…

Yes.

Haru is typing…

Then it’s fine.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen and looking at what I’ve done. I write a panicked goodbye and sign out before I can say something harmful. Looking over at my empty cup of coffee, I decide that one more won’t hurt. Haru’s probably had double what I’ve had already. 

I stand and I feel like a ghost. The guest chair is pushed back into place and I put Nagisa’s newest papers onto the incoming pile. A business card detaches that I assume is his and today must be a day for coincidences because I sight the name across the top. 

It’s not a business card; it’s a blank piece of cardboard with pen across it that reads, Haru. His telephone number comes next and I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat. 

This must be from Nagisa, which means he definitely planned it and he’s expecting me to do something; to talk to Haru. 

I have no idea what’s going to happen and I can’t stop thinking about it. I get no work done and tomorrow is going to be hard on me but I don’t care. 

After work I’m going to come clean. 

I’m going to meet Haru.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

It’s the same day when everything seems to stand still and move forward at the same time. I don’t think my emotions have ever been more finicky. Yeah, today is the day that I just might go crazy…

_Makoto is typing…_

Yeah, it’s the street with the small gallery. 

_Haru is typing…_

You live near there?

_Makoto is typing…_

Yup. It’s a nice neighbourhood. 

_Haru is typing…_

Okay. I’ll leave soon. Bye.

_Makoto is typing…_

Wait! 

_Haru is typing…_

What?

_Makoto is typing…_

My phone number…

_Haru is typing…_

Oh. 

_Makoto is typing…_

I mean, you don’t need it, just thought you might get lost. 

_Haru is typing…_

It’s fine. I’m bad at directions. 

_Makoto is typing…_

Ah. Alright then.

_Haru is typing…_

What is it?

_Makoto is typing…_

Right. My number is -

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I have never gone out of my way for someone before and I’ve got a strange tension swirling around inside of my abdomen as I tug on my shoes and run my fingers through my hair. I thought that Makoto was avoiding me. I’d just resigned myself to that fact. I didn’t expect him to suddenly sign on after five days and disappear just as quickly. He did it again about five minutes ago and now I have his phone number; not that I think I’ll use it. 

Today has been a bad day. I woke up feeling better, dealt with Nagisa’s shit, then read through Makoto’s old writing. I found a post that resonated with me and I was  _almost_  able to paint. It was ripped from me, though, by the stupid instant messenger advertisement. Following that, I tried playing cards, but I couldn’t even succeed at that. I read Makoto’s poem again and like before it was all in vain. I’d already walked into my studio and out again more than a couple of times. Each time I didn’t find anything new; it was nothing more than a room with a blank waiting canvas and my equipment. It flooded me with more than just annoyance. It was mixed with a pressure against my shoulders, my constant restlessness and a tightness in my chest. An emptiness rose up inside of me and like every time that happens, I needed to go for a nap. 

I did. I’d just flopped onto my bed, ready to stare at the ceiling for a long while before drifting off into a predictable state of dreamlessness. I rolled over and glared at the clock because it was still early. I don’t know what possessed me to think that this day would be better than any other; especially without my spark. 

Suddenly, my instant messenger dinged. 

It could have been an advertisement but my body didn’t allow myself enough time to think. Before I realised it, I was up and padding down the hall. I sat down just as Makoto wrote to me and it was clear to see that he was online. 

I don’t know what he wants or why he needs to talk to me but I can’t deny that I’m curious. We don’t know much about each other and it seems sort of weird, or it should feel weird. It doesn’t. Nothing about this seems out of place. It doesn’t even feel like I’m meeting him for the first time. I’m desperate to get my spark back and we were talking every day before his work got busy, so I guess we do know each other; probably more than I know Nagisa and I see him all the time. 

Though I do know what my manager looks like and I’ve never really imagined Makoto. Over the past five days I’ve noticed that he’s attractive because I’ve visited his blog more than once. I thought it initially and my observation hasn’t changed. His face matches the way that he types to me. However, he doesn’t look like all those words should be inside of his head; like a novelist. It makes me wonder if I look like I should be able to paint, not that I can at the moment. 

Yeah. I’m pretty useless and it’s a good thing that I have more savings than I know what to do with otherwise I’d be going broke.

I reach for my wallet and keys, followed by my phone. I stare down at the blank screen for a second longer than needed. Then, I shove them all into various pockets. I’m going to meet Makoto at this cafe near the art district. I have his phone number in case I get lost and if I call, he’ll answer. He’ll probably say hello like he does on chat but with his voice. What does he sound like? 

For some reason, the swirling inside of me intensifies as I glare down at my keys and I pocket them as well. I’ve got that weird feeling again. It’s been happening every so often whenever I think about something for too long. It’s intense and then it’s gone but I’m left with a vague unsettledness for a long time after.

Opening the door, I turn off the ceiling fan and move out onto the walkway. My rickety lock makes the same noise as always and I look out at the slowly retreating sun. It’s an orange colour at this time of day and would be nice to paint. It’s not a sight I’m particularly used to. My windows are shut and even when they are open I don’t see much of anything. 

I don’t talk on the phone and I don’t go outside and I realise that I’m thinking about one and doing the other for Makoto; the writer who is now my friend. 

Well, I think that he’s my friend. I wouldn’t really know. I’ve talked about Nagisa before and how we’re sort of friends. My connection with Makoto doesn’t feel the same as that, though. It’s much…different. I can’t explain it just like I can’t explain my art in exact words. 

I envy that about Makoto. He can look at a picture or painting and know exactly what to say. I know what to feel but I can’t articulate it. 

Maybe that’s why this friendship is different; because we’re connected through art. 

Nagisa is an annoying shit who I’ve known forever. He likes my paintings but I don’t think that he gets it in the same way. 

He gets friendship easily and meets and connects with new people all the time and I don’t. Friendship is a concept that I’m not sure that I’ll ever truly understand and it’s why I think about it often. 

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I step out into the street and trek toward the train station that will take me to the upper city. I’m not tired anymore and anticipation thrums through me. I have less than two weeks left to paint these pieces and I need something to kick start my drive. Hopefully meeting Makoto means that he’ll be online again. 

It takes me a good half an hour to get to where I need to be. I spend the last ten minutes walking from one street to the next in a bid to find that gallery that sold my paintings for a while. There are a few in this area and it’s annoying. 

I find it by chance and look across the road to the cafe Makoto mentioned. It looks fancy and really not my thing. Regardless, I heave in a deep breath and shove my hands into my jacket pockets. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now; I’ve been weird all day. 

I thought that I might have been happy this morning, but that was a mistake. Then I had inspiration, before it was stolen. After that I was down; numb. Now, I’ve got a busy stomach and a strange feeling in my chest. I haven’t felt it in a long time but I think that I might be nervous. Which is stupid because this isn’t the same isn’t the same niggle that I’ve felt briefly in the past. 

This is…intense. 

It’s almost enough to make me want to paint. 

The roads are busy so I take the cross walk to the other side, pulling out my phone as I go. I unlock the device as I reach my destination. I don’t want to go inside lest I be waited on and against my better judgment, I text Makoto. He doesn’t have my number and my stomach does that weird thing again.

**I’m here. -Haru**

My arm goes limp as I look at the area around me. Makoto said that he lives around here and he’s right, it’s a nice neighbourhood. It makes me think of him. It’s all shiny and new; well presented. My district is just as shabby as I feel. It’s old and the people who live there are all ancient. 

I like it that way. I don’t get pestered and it’s quiet at night. The only thing that irritates me is when the lady next door tries to talk to me; I can’t stand that. 

What’s Makoto’s flat like? Probably big and expensive like the rest of this place. 

Yeah, it’s a nice neighbourhood; too nice for me. 

Sorry Haru. I’m going to be late. There’s been a bit of a work crisis. I’m sorry! -Makoto

I sigh in frustration as I stare at the message and set about replying. He’s so embarrassing. He apologises for everything. 

It’s fine. -Haru.

I may as well get something to eat. I forgot to have food after Nagisa left and my stomach is hurting. I look at the cafe and then to the convenience store down the road. It’s not a hard choice. I’d rather walk the distance and buy something that doesn’t taste pretentious and overpriced. 

My phone vibrates and I pull it out again. I’m walking as I read Makoto’s message. It’s a ridiculous face and I hate the way that my lips hitch at the side. I can feel it and I know that I’m being off again. I click to respond and tell Makoto to knock it off. I know that he won’t reply straight away but it doesn’t stop me from looking at the screen for a moment longer. I glance upward to make sure that I’m still on the right track. I’m not and I almost drop my phone as I walk straight into another person. They’re on their phone too and I hear the device clatter to the sidewalk. 

It’s a man, who cusses sharply and bends to pick it up. 

“Sorry.” I say blankly, out of what Nagisa assures me is ‘politeness’. He says it too at the same time and we’re looking at each other, suddenly staring with mouths slightly ajar. I can’t believe this. He can’t either from the looks of it, as his wide eyes settle; his jaw sets and his teeth grit. It’s clear that we both feel the same way and we have since we first met. 

I gain my composure first and I shove my phone away as my eyes narrow. In the blink of an eye my mood changes for the millionth time today and I say coldly,

 “Rin.” 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

My phone has gone off twice. I’m still standing on the sidewalk and neither of us has moved an inch. I’m glaring at my rival who has been the biggest annoyance of my professional career; especially as of late. He’s 25 and wasn’t a prodigy. Rin didn’t start in the art world at a young age like I did. From what I’ve read, he did it through hard work and determination and he succeeded. His paintings are beautiful and full of life; they make me feel things and I hate him for it. I think that it goes both ways, too; the hate thing.

His presence has bothered me for a while and now I avoid thinking about him, which isn’t easy with all of the press that he’s been getting. On most days he’s just a niggle in the back of my brain; unless he’s in front of me. Looking at him, looking at me, I realise once again that this is what jealousy feels like; jealousy and a burning sense of competition. I didn’t think all that much of him at the start. We were both 20 and I was on the top of my game. He was just a small fry then while I was the big fish. Now, I’m a pathetic excuse for a top seller making my money off museum royalties who can only paint with the help of another person. Rin doesn’t need to steal a spark because he never had one to begin with. My hard work isn’t like his and I don’t think that I could replicate it if I tried.

Where does he get his fire? Where does his skill come from?

Where did mine go?

Rin was nice to me when we met and I ignored him; like I do with all of the other artists. He said that I inspired him and that he’d followed my work for a while.

At the time I didn’t think of it as a compliment, despite his big grin and boisterous attitude. He was annoying and I told him as much. He was just like Nagisa but a brash painter and it didn’t fit right.

I guess that I wasn’t a very nice person back then and this is my fault. Still, I can’t stop the burn or the jealousy from spilling forward into bitter words and sharp looks. He must think that I’m a failure and his smirk makes me stiffen. Rin looks victorious and I feel like nothing.

He has an exhibit next year lined up completely while I have a place in a show with five paintings. It’s pretty prestigious but people won’t be there for me. They’ll be there for the experience, to see all kinds of art and mine will just happen to have a place. Rin didn’t make the cut but he has a whole different level of exposure that I used to get with a click of my fingers and a swoop of a brush.

Times have changed and I don’t like it.

Yeah, I’m jealous because I hate to lose. I just didn’t realise the extent of my competitiveness until I couldn’t perform anymore; until he was on page 1 and me 7.

Rin comes to his senses first as he shakes his head and says my name. His hands burrow into his jacket pockets and he doesn’t look happy to see me. The hint of a smirk has fallen away but I can still see the superiority in his eyes. It’s like a well-kept secret that he can laugh over whenever he wants.

“You don’t come to this part of town.” He says and I merely nod in response. I’m not going to tell him my reason for being here.

“What are you doing here?” Rin follows up. It sounds almost conversational but I’ve fallen for that trap before.

“No reason.” I say.

“Che. You meeting someone? Because I know you can’t be here for work.”

My eyes narrow. “I could be.”

Rin’s smirk grows. “I’ve seen one painting from you in the past six months. Try to lie a bit better.” He stops, taking a step forward. “What happened, Haru? Talent run dry?”

“No.” I growl and I sound like a kicked dog. I don’t look strong, I look like I’m about to be eaten. I want to step back but I can’t let my guard down.

“Hmm. I don’t believe you.”

It’s easier to scoff at that because my talent isn’t gone it’s just locked away.

“Believe what you want.”

I discover that it’s the wrong thing to say. Rin is grinning and it isn’t pleasant. “Alright. I will.” He pauses. “You’re washed up and I’m still going. Who’s pathetic now?”

Idiot. My eyes narrow and they’re almost slits. “You for remembering that.” I reply.

He leans forward, smirking in a reasoning way. “So if I called you pathetic right now, called your art useless and lacking, you’d forget?”

He has a point and I think that he’s just inadvertently told me what he thinks. Rin is vicious and it’s not needed. We’re grown men but…

I said it first.

Breaking into this world is already hard enough with the critics and I remember the attention that Rin was getting because my ratings dropped just slightly. I can never remember the day of the week or if I’ve eaten, but I know things like that. He may have looked up to me and I might have believed him; I’m not sure. Regardless, he was a threat and I treated him as such.

I’m not a threat to him so why is he doing this? Kicks and giggles?

“I don’t think I would.” I finally respond, tone blank and expression to match.

“Mm.” He nods, looking satisfied; like he’s confirmed something. “This was interesting, but I’ve found out what I want to know. I have dinner to catch.”

Rin smiles sharply and it feels less hostile but just as condescending. His shoulder brushes mine as he passes and I manage to speak loud enough for him to hear.

“What did you find?” I’m curious. We didn’t talk of much and he looks even more triumphant. What am I missing?

A noise of amusement comes from Rin and he doesn’t turn around. Still, he replies.

“If you bought your way into the show. You’re not looking so hot, Haru, and neither was your last painting.”

“I didn’t.” I say quickly, whirling around in defence.

Rin doesn’t move for a moment before he makes a strange noise. I can’t tell what it signifies.

“I’d ask your manager then because that’s not what I heard.” He replies seriously. His voice is an octave lower and I note that the antagonism is gone. I think that he believes me but his words stir up new questions.

He’s gone before I can ask anymore and the implications are still sinking in. I’m standing alone on the pathway looking like an idiot. My mouth is ajar, eyes wide and thinking, phone now held in my tight grip. I look down at the device and note that it wasn’t Makoto contacting me, it was Nagisa.

Nagisa…

I’m not sure what to think but I wouldn’t put it past him. He wouldn’t have told me either because I would have said no. I don’t want any work that isn’t deserved especially if my employee has to beg for it. My last painting was complete shit and the few before it weren’t any better and I think that Rin might be right. The deal was all set up and ready to go even before I found my spark and the time of receival is ridiculously lenient. I haven’t come across policies like that before and we’ve entered a lot of shows; not just my own independent exhibits.

I was depressed, Nagisa was annoying and I remember that he seemed desperate. I told him to forget about it, and just when I thought that he had, he sprung back at me. He came back with a whole new game plan that consisted of blog ideas, internet sales and a bunch of other things that we haven’t tried before.

I stare down at his name without reading the words of the text. I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to meet Makoto and all I can see in my mind is the day that we visited Rin’s latest painting. Nagisa was cheerful from his meeting about the exhibit and I didn’t think to ask him any information. I didn’t care. I don’t realise that my eyes have closed and I’m seeing it; hearing it. It’s the same way that I envision my paintings before they are created; vivid and strong.

I can see Rin glaring at me as we stand on the side of the road in front of the building that houses his fire and ice painting with his manager and mine. He’s about to leave and I really hate him.

“Nothing worth seeing here anyway.” Rin throws over his shoulder and begins to walk. But it doesn’t stop there. I’m speaking and I remember my feelings exactly; anger, jealously, the need to prove myself.

“My art is real.” I get out and I look and sound defensive.

Rin pauses, turning slightly. “Yeah?” His manager reaches to hold his shoulder to stop him from coming closer. He’s further away but he isn’t far enough to miss.

“Yeah, I have a showing as well.” I declare almost proudly and Rin laughs contemptuously.

“A showing?” His eyes glide over to Nagisa who’s at my side and something strange passes over Rin’s face. Nagisa looks different, too, and I don’t know why I didn’t realise it at the time. “With Cityscapes, yeah?” Rin asks.

Nagisa nods.

“Heh. Who’d you fuck to get that place?” He scoffs, looking skeptical; like there’s a secret. His grin widens to inhuman proportions and with one last look in my direction he’s walking away. “I’m sure you got it on your own merit.” He throws over his shoulder. It’s dry, sarcastic and even I understand that he isn’t being serious. I can see the message now.

“Nagisa.” I begin as soon as they round the corner. He startles forward, turning to face me with eyes that are slightly off.

“Don’t let him get to you, Haru! He’s just trying to bait you.” Nagisa speaks, smiling reassuringly…too reassuringly. “You know Rin’s full of talk, it’s why you two fight every time you see each other.”

My eyes snap open and I’m looking at the street in front of me. I realise that I’m still in the upper district and I don’t notice the rumble of my stomach or the thump of my heart.

“Misdirection.” Falls from my lips and I now know that Nagisa was trying to throw me off the scent. He’s an odd ball but that was definitely different to normal. I remember the strange aura that surrounded him that I passed off as nothing.

This isn’t proof but its close enough. My manager did something to get me into the Cityscapes exhibit because my work is shit and not worth enough to be shown. It’s missing all the required components. I’m even wondering if the stuff I’ve been creating lately is good or if I’ve been fooling myself. They were approved by the exhibit but that doesn’t mean shit if we paid our way in. Would I still even be in the show if my paintings were mediocre?

My jaw hardens and I think that the answer is yes. I can’t be completely certain but I don’t need to be. My memory isn’t lying and I wish that I had been paying more attention at the time.

Nagisa told me that what Rin said was nothing and I thought that he was implying that it was all just a way to rile me up.

Obviously that wasn’t the case.

Nagisa wanted to draw me away from the truth and I’m surprised that it worked since I’m suspicious by nature. I don’t know what to feel or think. It’s all wrong. I’m entering a prestigious event with bribery and my manager’s charismatic words.

Except I’m not. I won’t be a part of anything that I didn’t earn. Maybe I’m too proud but I don’t give a damn.

For the first time in a while I dial Nagisa’s number first. He answers after the third ring sounding as cheerful as ever and a bitter feeling rises from the base of my stomach.

Isn’t he supposed to be my friend?

“Haru, I messaged you.” Nagisa says. “You weren’t at home.”

“No. I’m out.” I reply, stony and blunt. I don’t allow for a pause because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. This is just business. “Nagisa, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be honest with me.”

There’s a long moment of silence, just breathing, and it’s almost enough to make me hang up. His tone of voice changes, though, as he finally replies.

“Okay. What is it?”

Without a beat, I question him. “Did I make it into the show under normal circumstances?”

…

…

“ _Haru_ -” Nagisa begins and his tone is soft, apologetic.

I don’t wait to hear the rest of his answer as I cut in.

“You’re fired.”

It’s impulsive and I regret it the moment that I hang up but I can’t stop the sickening feeling in my stomach or the ache in my heart. My chest feels tighter now and I don’t note that this is the first time that I’ve fought with Nagisa seriously.

I gaze down at my phone; his name. I think that I understand friendship now and its shit that losing it has to hurt so much.

I text Makoto on my way home as I trudge along the pavement with no speed or push. I don’t care what time I’ll get there or even if I do. I’m not in the mood to meet up and it doesn’t matter anymore.

I don’t need to talk to Makoto because I don’t need my spark.

It’s over. I’m not entering the exhibit and I’m not going to paint.

I don’t understand that Makoto is more than just my spark or the toll that seclusion will have on me. I also don’t see that I asked Nagisa the wrong question.

As I step onto the train, I do notice that it’s the same as before. It took only one moment and now I’m the Haru that I once was. I’m numb and I don’t care if tomorrow comes.

I don’t care about anything.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

The sun shines in through my window. It’s blinding and should probably annoy me. I can’t muster up the strength to do anything about it either so I’ll just continue to lie here and deal with a beam of light that’s directed straight at my eyes. It’s painful but I suppose that it’s reminiscent of a real feeling and that’s something. Since the incident I haven’t been able to conjure up any real irritation or annoyance; even distaste has fled me. My stomach hasn’t been heavy, my chest hasn’t been tight, my bones haven’t rattled, there’s been no fire inside of me and it’s the best that I’ve felt in a long time because there is nothing to feel. It’s nothing. I’m nothing and this is the me that I’ve accepted. It’s easier this way.

It may have been well over a week ago since I left the house but I can’t be too sure. I unplugged my alarm and my phone is the only other clock that I have. It’s somewhere, if I want it. For the record, I don’t. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

I don’t even know what day it is and who cares anyway? It’s not like I have anything to do. I can stay in bed for the rest of my life if I want. I don’t really want anything, though. I’m content to float on by like I’ve done in the past. It was easy then and it is now. It doesn’t require any effort aside from breathing and sustenance. Unfortunately, the latter is a challenge I’d rather not deal with.

It’s the reason that I reluctantly pull myself out of bed after half an hour of staring into the harsh brightness. My stomach is growling and there’s a pain in my back because I’ve neglected to eat for a day or two. My vision is blurry due to the sunlight and I’m temporarily blind in one eye. Padding forward, I narrowly miss the door frame and I’m sort of regretful about it. The pain in my eye is enough to remind me that I’m human and I’m sure a bump or two would do the same.

I make it to the washroom without hindrance and avoid my ritual of self-observation. I don’t give a shit what I look like and I already know the answer anyway. Yeah, I look horrible. I haven’t shaved, my hair is askew and seemingly growing longer, I’m sleeping all the time but I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, I’m already thinner, and those are just a few indicators of my lifestyle. Nevertheless, I don’t even think that I’m getting started. I’m sure to decline even more.

The shower takes me five minutes at most. I don’t enjoy the warm spray or the scent of soap. I don’t contemplate deep and meaningful things or question facets of life that regular people understand from the get-go. I definitely don’t think about painting, or Makoto, or Nagisa.

I barely wash myself, dry off and then walk aimlessly around my apartment for ten minutes in my underwear. It’s cool from the a/c that I have neglected to turn off in days and I think that without it the house might smell. There’s rubbish all over the coffee table, the computer desk, the benches, both side tables, the couch; pretty much every surface is covered. Some things were there prior to a week ago and I’ve just messed it up some more, but the rest is delivered take out. Every bowl that I own has found a place upon a piece of furniture with remnants of dried cereal within. There would be dishes in the sink if I made my own food. I wouldn’t have ordered delivery either but the milk went bad and I had to eat something. My savings might go down the drain like this but it’s not like I care either way. I should, but I don’t.

A noise that’s most likely my phone sounds loudly. It’s been happening for a while now and I ignore it every time. The stupid device is on charge and I can’t remember where; underneath something I suppose. It’s actually surprising how many power points there are in this place and I’m not prepared to clean up to find out. It can go off. I don’t know why I plugged it in in the first place. I don’t remember anything from the first night that I came home. Really, I should have thrown it away.

The beeping stops after a moment or three before resuming again and I open the fridge. There’s still nothing there and the cupboards are empty, too. There’s noodles that I can cook; my preferred brand and instant. Of course, one takes longer to make than the other and I don’t care what it tastes like. The instant noodles fall into my grasp and I tug the wrapping open. I also pull out a bottle of drink from the fridge. It’s the only thing there and it’s rather heavy. It was Nagisa’s and I realise that it’s wine.

Oh well. I think as I plop down on the couch, chewing on dry noodles absently and popping open the bottle like I’ve done this before.

Just so you know, I haven’t. I’ve never been one to drink despite my age, not even champagne at events, and I guess that now is a good time to start. The television turns on and a soap opera appears. It’s pretty standard for this time of morning, or any weekday for that matter.

I don’t listen or watch; I just look. There’s a difference between looking and seeing and I’m barely doing the first. My dry noodles are depleting with each ‘crunch’ ‘crunch’ and I wash it down with the disgustingly fruity drink. It’s got a bitter aftertaste and I have no idea how anyone can drink this shit on a normal occasion. Nagisa seemed to love the stuff and he must be crazy because it’s horrible.

“Nagisa.” I mutter tonelessly, staring down at the bottle of wine. I place the almost empty receptacle upon the television guide that’s perched precariously on the table. I’m a bit lightheaded and my noodles are all gone. My stomach is swirling, too, and there’s a darkness in the base of my chest, tightening and building upwards. I haven’t felt it in a long while and it hurts.

My phone beeps again and my head snaps to the side. I can see it now. It’s all the way across the room next to my laptop, beneath a bunch of old papers. I don’t remember putting it there just like I can’t recall what happened yesterday. My laptop is still turned on and I can see that there are messages on the screen. The instant messenger was still signed in when I left to meet Makoto and I don’t care what they say. It can be only two people and I don’t want to hear from either of them.

I may as well throw my computer out a window because I’m never going to use it again, but that means that I’d have to go outside and that’s not happening. I only got the device because I was forced to and I have only been using it for the blog and instant messenger. Not anymore, obviously.

Regardless of my wish to never use my phone again, or my laptop, to never answer the door or see another human being, they are still going to try and contact me. I can already feel them breaching the walls of my seclusion as my mind becomes thicker by the minute. I’ve had maybe two glasses worth of this fruity crap but it seems like that’s enough for me to be drunk. I thought it would feel good but it is the complete opposite. I feel shitty and my mind is playing tricks on me; pulling away layers that I’d carefully constructed like they were never there to start with.

I sigh and glance away from the ringing phone. The television is still going and I’m sprawled out laxly. My head lolls against the couch and without realising it I’m starting to think of a solution. The first that comes to me is that I should move to somewhere far away where it is just me and no one to get in my way. I’d never have to hear my phone ring again or my laptop ding with each new message. I’d never have to tell people my name again. I could forget my name all together.

I could catch a train and never look back.

I sense that it’s a plan full of flaws but it’s attractive nonetheless.

Yeah, erasing myself would definitely take too much effort.

Exhaling tiredly, I gaze back to the green bottle in front of me. It’s leaning a little too far to the right and I pick it up before it can fall over. Who cares if Nagisa bought it; all the more point to drink it on him.

I do, I drain the rest of the bottle and watch it fall to the floor with a ‘thump’. It rolls a meter or two and I continue to stare.

Then my phone goes off again.

For fuck’s sake, just leave me alone.

I keep ignoring it and switch the tv station repeatedly through all of the channels before settling on the catalogue station. It’s just a bunch of advertisements that I don’t listen to. It’s no wonder people become broke hoarders this time of day is an impulse shopper’s dream with infomercials unceasingly rolling by.

My head is cloudier than before and this time when my phone goes off, I jolt. This isn’t a phone call, it’s a text message. Still, I ignore it. It’s less than a moment before it starts up again and I can feel my brows draw in together with each new beep. The ringing is getting in the way of the advertisements that I’m not watching and is giving me a headache; especially coupled with the second sound signifying another text.

“Shut up.” I tell it without looking. It continues to beep and I sigh again. Still, I make no move to stop it.

I don’t know why Nagisa is calling. I already made myself clear. He’s fired and I don’t need to talk about it anymore. He’s already visited my apartment a handful of times and I thought that he

was going to break down my door. He didn’t and I didn’t talk to him. After a couple of days he gave up and then the phone calls began.

I don’t know why he’s trying so hard. He’s always so desperate and it’s partly the reason that life has become like this. If I wasn’t able to paint anything anymore he should have told me. I went to university as well; I could have gotten a crappy job and continued on living. Instead, Nagisa pushed it. He did something to get me into an exhibit and I was excited for it; for the opportunity. My spark was on the mend and I should have known that it was all too good to be true. Things only ever get better so that they can get worse, and if that’s the case I don’t want this to get better. I’m fine with the way things are and even though the alcohol is making me ponder a bit more than I have in the past few days, I think I’d come to the conclusion any other time as well.

With that in mind, I heave myself up from the couch with a lethargic huff and slump over to the computer desk. I can feel the dirt beneath my feet but I don’t care. I’m not going to clean it.

The phone rings again but I’m looking at the instant messenger. There are a few messages but not as many as I thought. They all say a variation of one thing, though:

‘Are you okay?’

I read them all without meaning to and my mind supplies without my consent,  _No. I’m not_. It pulls a scowl from me and I slam the lid of the laptop closed. It makes a strange noise and I hope that it’s broken.

If only I was so lucky.

The phone goes off again and I roughly shove the papers aside. I rip it away from the charger and I’m about to throw it when it goes silent again.

I still, and with a small amount of curiosity I stare down at the screen. I’m unable to register just how many calls I’ve received, but it looks like a lot. There are texts, too, and I open the inbox.

‘I’m sorry. Answer you phone.’

‘I’m sorry. Come to the door.’

‘Let me explain.’

‘Haru.’

‘Please.’

Every text does something to me that I don’t quite understand and I have to grip at my head because it’s buzzing strangely. I think that I’m pretty wasted. I fall down onto the computer chair because it’s too difficult to stay standing and I press the exit button on the phone.

“No.” I tell it firmly. There’s no need to explain. I get it.

I don’t need this thing anymore and it’s going to last for too long. I might go crazy by the time the battery runs dry.

“Oh.” I realise as I turn the phone over. I think I remember that you can take it out. I was shown once but I wasn’t looking. It can’t be too hard.

‘Beep, beep, beep, beep.’ The mobile goes off again just as my fingers slide into a groove and it can all be over if I just exert a little pressure.

I don’t and it’s probably a mistake but I can’t help myself. I turn it over and I’m going to press the red button to make it stop ringing, or tell Nagisa to fuck off, I’m not too sure. However, when my eyes fall upon the screen I realise that it’s not my ex-manager, but another number.

I wonder if the alcohol is forcing me to see things so I close my eyes before blinking a few times. The phone doesn’t halt and I stare lethargically back at the name. My heart is faster than it has been but I still feel so tired. My head isn’t any clearer and this being drunk thing is confusing; it’s like I’m being ripped between feeling nothing at all and experiencing  _everything_.

I’m never drinking again.

It’s probably going to be another broken promise because I seem to be good at doing that. I’m breaking one right now as I press the green button and hold my phone up to my ear.

“Makoto.” I murmur before going silent.

I don’t register that this is my first time hearing his voice or the way my eyes close in foggy relief when I hear him take a breath.

“Haru.” He replies.

Maybe I’m dreaming.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

The phone engages and the silence of my living room becomes almost deafening. I say his name and listen as his breath hitches. Makoto breathes into the receiver and my eyes are closed before I realise it. It’s only a small gesture but it holds more feeling than I have had in a while. It’s like something heavy is being lifted off me and he hasn’t spoken yet. 

I haven’t been thinking about him at all because I haven’t been thinking about anything. I didn’t let myself. But right now, Makoto is on the other line with his phone held to his ear, readying to speak. My apartment is dirty, I’m tired as fuck, I have a strange alcohol headache and I’m drunk for the first time in my life. 

It’s probably not the best time to have a conversation. We’ve never talked on the phone and I’m a mess. Regardless, when he says my name in greeting I breathe out a sigh. I realise that I have been holding my breath and the tension is starting to sap away. 

“I’m sorry for calling.” Makoto says after a long silence. It feels heavier than I expected; not that I have thought about it before. It’s like there’s something beneath it, beneath us. There probably is. 

“It’s fine.” I mutter and Makoto makes a noise. It sounds sort of happy. “What?” I ask curiously. I didn’t realise that drinking wine would make me chattier than normal, though I’m not even close to a regular conversationalist. 

He chuckles and the heaviness lifts a little. “It’s nice to know what you sound like when you say that. You write it a lot.” 

“Oh.” I respond lamely. 

There’s a pause and I’m thinking about his voice. It’s velvety in a way; deep and safe. I can imagine that he’d be a good hypnotist or something because his tone is lulling. I don’t talk to many people so I don’t have much to gauge it by but I think that this is different to how men should talk with each other. It might be the alcohol that’s making me feel this way. I just don’t know.  

This person is barely my friend and I think that I might trust him more than I trust myself. I have no idea what that means but it should be terrifying. 

“I tried to message you.” Makoto informs and I wonder if I’ve been ignoring him. 

I nod into the air. “I just saw.” 

“Oh. You did? So you’re okay?” He sounds hopeful and I don’t know whether to lie or tell the truth. I’m not really anything and I think that most people would consider that as not okay. 

“I don’t know.” I murmur instead. I can feel the worrying coming through the receiver and it’s almost annoying. It isn’t, though. It makes my chest tingle in a foreign sensation.

There’s another moment like he’s putting something together in his mind. He is and he states in realisation, “You haven’t been able to paint.” I’m not sure how he came to that conclusion but it’s true in a way. Maybe he knows what it’s like; he is a writer. 

I suppose that’s why I don’t have a problem admitting the truth. “No. I haven’t.” 

“Haru…” He trails off and I want him to say my name again. 

“I don’t want to paint.” I’m not telling the truth. Even when I feel nothing the urge is still there. Even when it turns out like garbage or I’m unable to create one measly stroke, it doesn’t stop the niggle to try. 

Makoto’s more switched on than anyone I’ve ever met because he calls me out on it. “That’s a lie. Even when I can’t write I want to.”

“Yeah, well…there’s no point, anyway.” I tell him simply. It’s rational to me. 

His reasoning is better. “You should paint because you want to. The point doesn’t matter.” 

I’m about to reply with words that I haven’t thought about but his statement catches me off guard. A love for painting was the reason that I started and the reason that I kept creating for so long. I’m not sure when it happened but I guess I stopped thinking about painting as enjoyment and started seeing it as something that is show worthy or paycheck material. 

I should have seen it. Deadlines have never been good for me and I’m unable to perform properly without something pushing me forward, like Nagisa or my rival’s works. I shouldn’t need it, though. I should paint because I want to and when I have my spark (Makoto’s stolen inspiration) I’m not thinking about anything at all; there are no sales in my head, or shows, or even deadlines. It’s just me and the painting; the image in my head. 

It’s pure and I want it again but I can’t. I can’t because, “I’ve lost my spark.” I admit aloud. It comes easier than I thought it would and I’m wondering why I didn’t say it to begin with. It seems that talking with Makoto on the phone is easier than instant messenger; or it’s the buzz from the wine. Either way, I just gave away a big secret like it was nothing at all.

He doesn’t understand right away, though. “Your spark?” 

I sigh shortly. “Yeah. My inspiration. It’s gone. It has been all year.” 

Makoto clears his throat and I imagine him sitting up a bit straighter, wherever he is. “But the paintings you showed to me were brilliant.” He tells me and I truly believe him. 

“It’s because of you.” I supply. It’s because of Makoto’s writing.

“But Haru…I didn’t paint them.” He replies, confused.

“Your writing gave me inspiration.” I frown before saying something that doesn’t come to me easily. “I stole your spark…Sorry.” 

I don’t know if it’s just me but the silence suddenly feels thick again and Makoto is inhaling sharply. His next words sound grateful and I don’t deserve them at all. 

“You can use my spark whenever you want.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need it anymore.” 

“Why not?”

 How irritating. Didn’t I tell him already?

“I fired my manager. The show’s off.”

“Haru!” He exclaims like I’m a naughty child. I forget as he continues, “Shouldn’t people see your latest work?”

I hum in brief thought. “Not if it’s shit.” 

“I’m telling you that it’s not.” Makoto says pressingly, like it’s important that I understand.

“What would you know?”

…

“I know  _enough_ …” He tells me, despite my somewhat defensive tone.  

I’m being childish, I know. This conversation is weird. It shouldn’t be this easy to bicker with him or share my feelings. I’m even doing it again as I tell the truth.

“I didn’t get into the exhibit on my own, my manager did something….paid them or whatever. I don’t want to do it like that.”

Makoto hums in disagreement. “I’m sure it was your talent, Haru.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Do you?” He replies quickly and he’s got me there. 

“No…Nagisa had it planned before I even got my spark…Your spark.”

…

“I think you’re looking into it too much. Doesn’t that just mean that he has faith in you? Aren’t you friends?” 

I don’t respond and he keeps talking.

“Did you talk it out? I’m sure that it’s a mistake. Anything you make is better than a normal painter, even Loveless.” 

“Yeah, but it’s still  _loveless._ ” I scowl. 

“And that’s the appeal of the piece.” 

“Is that why you wrote about it?” I don’t realise that I was curious until the question is out there. 

“Yeah. It inspired me, I guess.” 

“What…” I try to find my words. I should have thought about what I wanted to say first. “What inspires you normally?” I’ve been wondering this for a while. If Makoto’s writing can bring something out in me then there might be somewhere that he gets his fire as well. 

“I look at paintings. There’s one style that I really like.” He replies. Makoto sounds more hesitant than before and I can’t figure out why. 

It feels fitting, though, even if he is embarrassed or something. His writing is built from the foundations of a painting and my paintings are created from the fire within his words. It stirs something in me that has been dormant and I want to read the piece that he wrote before I went off the radar. 

“Are they like mine?” 

“Yeah. Just like yours.” Makoto murmurs. I think that I like his soft voice the best. 

 I go quiet as I listen to him breathing evenly. He sounds relaxed, too, and I forget that we were almost bickering moments before. I never imagined that our conversation would go this way; I never imagined talking to Makoto at all. He has something that I don’t think that I have. There’s a lot of fire inside of him. I can feel it. It’s probably where I get my spark because the embers inside of me start to sizzle. I’m not sure if it’s inspiration because it’s formless, but it might grow into it. My belly is warm and my heart is heavy. There’s still no point and I’m not sure if I really want to. 

I don’t know what I want to do about anything. I haven’t been thinking about my feelings or the future since I met with Rin. I never even considered that there may have been a misunderstanding. I paint serene pictures but I’m a very negative person. Makoto seems to always be looking at the positive, like Nagisa. 

Maybe…

Maybe I’ve been too hasty. 

“Makoto.” I mutter because he’s gone silent. I have as well, as I try to wrap my head around this. His breath is faster than before and I notice that mine is, too. I sound quiet when I ask him. “Why do you care?” 

He exhales deeply and it’s like the whole world is on top of him. It’s a serious noise that draws my attention and the fire in my stomach grows unexplainably. I don’t know what he looks like aside from his face but I can imagine Makoto threading his fingers through his hair as he holds onto the phone. I have no idea where he is but I see a table and a drawn in expression like he is frustrated with me. 

“I have my reasons, Haru. I actually wanted to tell you when we were going to meet.” Makoto admits. His voice is low but loud enough to hear. It’s sort of sad actually and I want to know why. 

“Will you tell me if we do?” I ask tonelessly and he’s quick to affirm. I nod at nothing and stand up. I’m still buzzed and the energy inside of me is too hard to ignore. 

“When?” I wonder aloud. I’m ready to leave the house right now and I haven’t noticed that I’m almost breaking my promise of seclusion.

“I’ll meet you at the exhibit.” Makoto says resolutely, like there’s no doubt at all, and I falter. A frown comes to my face and I stand stock still in the middle of the room. 

“I’m not doing the exhibit.”

“You should.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should listen to your manager, too. You’ve known him forever, right? Sometimes people do stupid things when they care a lot.” 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

Makoto chuckles wryly. “I wouldn’t say that, Haru.” 

I scoff and ask him what that means. I don’t know what it feels like to care for someone; not consciously. 

“Didn’t you fire your manager because of a fight?” He reasons and I think that I know where he is going with this. 

“Yes…” I trail off. I sound suspicious and I’m waiting to see if there is a point to this.

“That sounds like a pretty emotional thing to do. People disagree with their managers all the time. I think that because he is your friend that you took it harder. What if it really is a misunderstanding?”

I was just thinking that but I’m still quick to retort. “It’s not.”

“Did you confirm that yourself?”

I grimace. “No…”

“Haru.”

“Do you have to sound like that? Who even lectures someone the first time they talk?” I grouse. It’s almost like I’m snapping but not quite there yet. I know there’s a warmth beneath my tone but anyone else would think that I’m being rude. Regardless, Makoto just laughs and that strangeness in my stomach pulses. 

“You don’t seem to mind.” He replies and I think that he’s smiling. 

My ears are turning warm and I bite out. “Shut up.” 

He does. We both do. It’s silent and I think that I might be almost smiling. Makoto speaks first and I have to shake my head at his positivity. 

“You’ll blow everyone away at the show and I’ll be there to see it.”

“Yeah?” I counter. I don’t think I can. The exhibit isn’t even four days away. How the fuck can I get out two paintings with no spark at all. 

“Yeah.” Makoto assures. It surprisingly works because I’m walking back to my computer and opening up the internet browser.

“I can’t paint without my spark.” I remind him. 

“You can have mine.” Makoto offers and I’m already on his blog. There’s nothing there, though, and I don’t think that he’s uploaded it. Strange. 

“It’s not here.” I tell him ambiguously. He gets it, however.

“I’ll give it to you when you call your manager.”

“No. I want it now.” I disagree firmly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him? I’d want to if it were me.” 

“Well you aren’t.” 

“Text him?”

“ _Makoto_.”

“Yes?”

“You’re bossy.” 

He laughs again. It’s melodic and reminds me of a stream. In my mind I can already see the nature forming and the big picture. The small details aren’t there aside from the rocks that jut through the water and the way it glistens in the midday sunlight. 

I think that I know what I want to paint.

“Am I?” Makoto continues to chuckle. “I’m not usually. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I reply. 

With each new intonation of Makoto’s voice a new piece of the puzzle forms.

“Okay…I’ll send you the file if you’re online.”

“Wait a minute.” I say as I press the button to become visible. A file pops up and the transfer begins. 

“I’ll go so you can message your manager. We can talk on the computer…and at the exhibit.” 

“Wait.” I’m not ready for the image to leave my mind and there’s something that’s been bothering me for a while as well.

“Oh?” Makoto stops. 

“Are we friends?” I ask bluntly. The document finishes and it pops open on my screen. 

“Yeah. We’re friends.” He says softer than before. It’s not a laugh but it does the same job. I’m staring at the words on the screen but I’m not taking them in. 

I realise as he exhales that I don’t need to. My bones are starting to rattle. The fire is growing stronger. 

“Makoto. I’m going to paint.” I say absentmindedly. 

I don’t hear him say goodbye or the well wishes that he wants to bestow on me. I merely hang up before shooting Nagisa a text that says clearly, ‘talk later’. 

I’m still in my underwear when I close the lid to my laptop. I have only eaten dry noodles and drunk about three glasses of wine. I’m going to be hung over soon but it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a scene inside of my head and if I act quickly it can be brought to life. The blues, oranges and greens are vivid and as a newly engraved laugh replays in my mind I head toward my studio. 

I don’t know if I’m going to do the exhibit. I don’t know if Nagisa paid them or not. I don’t see the point of any of this. 

Though there never was a point; there never should be. I’m painting just because I want to. 

I’d forgotten that a long time ago and when I meet Makoto I’ll have to thank him. 

I know that I’m still depressed when I pick up my paintbrush and it doesn’t matter at all. It’s a feeling; the fire inside of me is, too. I might be sad or down but the sunlight in my mind is bright and I’m not sure how but happiness pours onto the canvas when I was sure that only the bad existed inside of me. 

I don’t hear my phone go off as a text comes through. I don’t notice any of my surroundings. It’s just me and a painting that has no point. 

I should have remembered sooner. 

Even if this painting is shit I won’t care because it’s all for enjoyment. I’m glad that there’s no point.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

For three whole days I paint like I’m starved. I have pictures inside of my head; lots and lots of images. So many that I’m not certain what will become of my end product. I paint without conscious thought. I push through the hangover, the fatigue, the hunger, every human need and focus on the emotions that I have been ignoring; feelings that I had convinced myself were long gone. Want surges through my veins and a desire to create. I don’t remember the deadline or the fact that there is an exhibit looming above my head. I don’t care about it at all.

I think about nothing but what is in front of me and the force that is driving me there. Makoto enters my mind every so often, or more so his words. Our phone conversation was the first time that I heard him speak and I know that it is the reason that I am here now. I get the feeling that he is rarely ever wrong and even if he is I trust him. I think that I trusted him as soon as I saw his face. His eyes are green like the colour upon the canvas and his voice is warm like the midday sun. These paintings that are now complete stare back at me as I observe one last time. They are both very different to each other and I’m proud. The first painting is the darkness of night and the stars that I never see. The water glistens in just the right way and there is a light on the horizon. The second canvas is more important despite seeming less so. It is true to my first creations but there is one key difference; they were created with the intent of being landscapes. This painting of the stream and the jutting rocks, the glowing harsh rays of sun, green leaves being pushed along the water that look like they will escape the page is all a physical representation of Makoto and the spark that he has given to me. I didn’t read his work because I didn’t need to. I now know what I have been missing and without him I wouldn’t have this understanding. I would be lying on my bed with packets of dried noodles surrounding me. I’d be miserable and exhausted.

I wouldn’t have two finished paintings sitting in a cool room looking show worthy. When I first made Loveless, I looked at it and knew straight away that it wasn’t up to scratch. It was lacking in more than one way. If a painting had a heart, then Loveless looked to me (in that first moment) like the organ had been ripped from the page. It sold, of course, but it doesn’t make me any more impressed with myself.

These paintings that sit upon their stands are not loveless. They have a heart and it’s satisfying. They are both very unique to each other but I can see the link. The feelings that come from both weave together harmoniously and will fit my first show piece very well.

Which leads me to my next decision.

I’m past exhausted, probably dirty, wavering on the spot with just under 48 hours to go until show time. I stumble into the living room and grimace at the sight that greets me. The apartment suddenly looks horrible and if I wasn’t so tired my fingers would be itching to clean it. My phone is still on when I pick it up and see that there is only one text from Nagisa saying, okay. I don’t reply to it and text Makoto instead.

‘I did it.’ I write before pressing send.

Then, I hold down the number one and my speed dial connects. The phone rings all of four times before a rushed, “hello,” comes through the speaker and I realise that I haven’t thought of what I want to say.

So I start with the hardest. “Nagisa, I’m sorry.”

He gasps and it sounds like he’s bumping around a lot, wherever he is. “No, Haru! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you.”

I know that Nagisa is about to go on but his words are growing fuzzy to me. I make my way back to the hallway and enter my room. My bath towel is thrown on the bed and I have every intent of having a shower.

“I did it.” I tell him, cutting Nagisa off. “I finished the last two paintings.”

I sit down on the bed and grub at my temples in an attempt to gather my bearings. Everything is swimming and I think that I might rest my eyes for just a moment.

“I’m tired.” I get out.

“How long have you been up?” Nagisa asks me.

I don’t get to reply as my head hits the mattress and the phone falls to lie against my limp hand. Nor do I hear what he has to say next or the worried tone of his voice. I’m half on my bed, sprawled backwards. My hair is messy and caked with paint and I probably smell. There is dried colour all over my hands and forearms and I won’t be bathing for a while.

None of that matters, though, because I’m asleep and for the first time in a year…

I’m dreaming.

The water laps at my mind and flows rapidly. I hear voices and see faces. I’m floating with the current and there are no worries inside of me. Images pass by just waiting to be painted. Feelings that I had forgotten are strong and pleading to be seized.

It’s all too brief, wonderful and overwhelming. I’m greedy after so long and I want more without realising it. I want to dream again before I’ve even woken up.

Nagisa’s loud voice pulls me from my slumber and I jolt sharply; it’s like a jagged flail that has me sitting up and gripping the bed sheets.

There is light streaming through the curtains and I think for a moment that it is the same day; that I’ve only been asleep for an hour or so. It’s bright, however, and the white glow tells me that it’s morning.

“I cleaned your apartment.” Nagisa startles me. I forgot that he is here when he is right in front of me.

I try to speak but my voice gets stuck in my incredibly dry throat. I clear it with a grunt and try again with squinting eyes that observe his soft smile and watchful eyes.

“How did you get in here?” I ask. His eyes widen and so does his smile. It wakes me up considerably.

“I broke in, of course!” Nagisa grins. “After you called you fell asleep, Haru. I heard you snoring on the phone so I rushed over to see what I could do.” He nods exuberantly and I scowl.

“I don’t snore.” I fire back petulantly and he hums in response before thrusting a towel onto my lap and ordering,

“Shower.”

I don’t even think to disagree. Suddenly I feel dirtier than I am and I’m standing quickly. Nagisa’s already gone and I hear rustling around in the living area. I hope that he isn’t cooking for me because he isn’t very good at it.

“Are you hungry, Haru?” He calls out five minutes later. I hear him over the sound of the water pelting against the tile and I yell back a resolute no. I know that it won’t help, anyway. Chances are that Nagisa has already done what he wants and is asking after the fact, which makes me think that I was a bit hasty in my thoughts about him; in relation to the exhibit and not my breakfast. He’s always done what he thinks is best and although some of his methods are questionable, it’s always been good for the both of us in the long run and not just financially. I still don’t know exactly what went on or how I got into the exhibit with such leniency, but I should trust that Nagisa knows what he is doing. Even when we were teenagers he was an action first talk later type of kid, he’s just a bit better at it now.

I rinse off the paint and the soap, wash my hair and shave. I realise that today is the day of the show and that I might be meeting Makoto.

Unlike our failed attempt, I now understand the strange thrum within my abdomen and the increased rate of my heart. I get why I have cut my jaw twice with shaky fingers when my hands are steady by trade.

I’m nervous and I’m not sure if it’s because of the exhibit or Makoto; it might be both. I’ve been off my game for a while and from what I’ve heard a lot of artists will be there. This is my reputation that I haven’t so much cared about before. However, something inside of me wants to do well. I want to prove that my art is worth something because I loved painting it, not because it will make me money. These are charity pieces, anyway. I do get a cut but nothing compared to a normal sale.

When I went to meet with Makoto last time I felt sort of casual about it, but today I feel nothing of the sort. I’m on edge and it might have to do with the fact that I slept for over 14 hours and am able to think properly for the first time in a long while.

I dry off and stand before the mirror. I haven’t done this in a while but I don’t look bad. I’m thinner than I used to be and I’m pretty pale. Nevertheless, I look rested and there’s colour to my cheeks. My eyes don’t seem to be dull anymore and I wonder if it’s all about perspective.

I’m right about the food thing. As soon as I enter the living room, I’m hit with the scent of sweetness and the clink of plates. My apartment is almost sparkling, the cool air is refreshing and I think I’m actually happy that I live here.

“Sit down.” Nagisa pushes me, prodding at my back with his bony fingers. I’m forced down onto the couch and a pile of food is placed on the coffee table a second later. Pancakes are the first thing that I see and for some odd reason they aren’t burnt to a crisp.

I must be eyeing them warily because Nagisa plops down beside me and says, “Don’t worry, Haru, I didn’t make them. I got my assistant to get them.” Yeah, I know it’s weird. My manager who does fucking everything has an assistant. He’s real life useless, though.

“Ah.” I respond absently and relief floods me. Good. I would have eaten it regardless. I’m fucking starving.

The next ten minutes are filled with the sounds of ravenous chewing and Nagisa’s commentary of whatever is on television. It almost feels like we never fought, though I can still sense a little tension. He’s not being as annoying as usual and its…annoying.

“Nagisa.” I interject when it becomes too noticeable. I’ve cut him off from whatever trail he was on but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Mmh?” He replies. He looks rather surprised and it’s comical given the pancake that he’s just shoved into his mouth.

I have no idea what I need to tell him or what I want to say to make it right.

“About before…”

Swallowing loudly, he shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’s my fault that I didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but I should have known you wouldn’t pay to get me in.”

…

“You thought I’d paid?” Nagisa gawks incredulously.

Oh. I guess I didn’t tell him that part. He shakes it off quickly, though, and he’s looking damn happy with himself now. His expression is real smug, like he’s a hero or something.

“Someone approached me and said that they loved your work. It was the coordinator of the exhibit. Apparently he’s been a fan of yours since high school.” Nagisa explains and suddenly I feel like an idiot. It’s a coincidence and probably would only happen to me, and all I can think is,  _of course_.

“Why didn’t you say?” I say instead.

“They wanted it to be kept quiet. I think he was embarrassed or something, though he did want to meet you.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll have to say hello at the show and be real thankful, Haru.” Nagisa punctuates the air with his utensils.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” I grouse. I hate when he tells me what to do.

“You sure?”

“I said yes, didn’t I? Are you my mother?” I grab for my drink in retaliation as the familiar annoyance crawls through me. I conveniently forget that he may as well be my mother with all the shit that he does for me and stare at the television in irritation. It dissipates with his next words, though, and makes me falter.

“No, I’m your manager.”

I stop and let the glass clink against the wood. I can’t suppress the small smile that has made its way to my face or the warmth that fills my belly. It’s embarrassing so I look away.

“Yeah, you are.” I respond. “So you better not fuck up tonight.”

He makes a loud squawking noise and I know that he’s just playing because the smile on his face might as well rival the sun.

“Haru, you’re so mean!” Nagisa exclaims, knocking his shoulder against mine heartily. My drink almost spills and he grins apologetically before getting comfortable again.

“Idiot.” I mutter as I smirk into my coffee. He doesn’t reply and looks like he’s ready to watch soap operas all day. I guess that would be fine but I want to talk to Makoto, too. I put my mug down and look toward my computer. It’s still closed so I can’t tell if there are any messages. Glancing down, I note that my phone has made its way to the coffee table and sits beside our empty plates. It’s lit up and is easier than going all the way over to instant messenger. My ears go warm and I can’t help but fold into myself at the surge of electricity that bursts inside of me

just because someone has sent me a message. It’s embarrassing, especially since it isn’t anything new.

“Oh yeah, you have a text.” Nagisa says absently. He’s picking at the dregs of food on my plate now. He’s so little but he’s such a glutton.

I hum in affirmation and pick up the device, steeling myself. The coffee is all gone and so is my food, I’m showered, the paintings are complete, my house is clean and as I read the words sent from Makoto I feel like I’m really ready for the exhibit.

**Sender- Makoto**

**‘See you tonight.’**

I grimace at myself because it’s so simple but it makes me happy. I click reply a little firmer than needed, write something completely embarrassing and press send before I can change my mind.

**Reply - Me**

**‘Looking forward to it.’**

I toss my phone onto the table and glare at the television again. Nagisa is glancing at me and I don’t care to tell him what my problem is. The phone beeps not even a minute later and I jolt and reach for it quickly.

**Sender - Makoto**

**‘Me too :)’**

My neck turns red and I want to throw my phone out the window. Instead, I shove it into my pocket after putting it on silent.

“Are you okay, Haru?” Nagisa asks me. I don’t look but I think that he might be smirking.

I shoot him a glare as I rise from the couch and stalk towards my studio. There will be someone here to get my paintings soon and hopefully Nagisa will go with them.

He doesn’t leave for the rest of the day and I have to deal with him until we are readying to leave for the exhibit where I’ll have to put up with him for the entirety of the event.

I won’t tell Nagisa that it’s better than the loneliness of the past weeks. He’ll just become even more irritating and loud.

I guess that’s what it means to have a manger that is my friend.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com

“Haru!” Nagisa exclaims for the millionth time this evening. He left my apartment for an hour at most and he’s back already. The respite was brief and long gone as he tugs at my tie and fixes my hair like I’m a child. “Stop moving.” He orders and I glare down at his ever cheerful face.

“Do I have to wear this?” I ask and it’s a stupid question. Of course I have to look like an idiot, suit and all. Nagisa tells me that I’m pristine and handsome; a ‘tall dark drink’ he says. I feel stiff, though, and it’s not going to be over for many hours to come. Still, when I’m pulled in front of the mirror in my bedroom, I can’t help but think that this isn’t me. It’s not bad, I just feel like a whole different person. My hair is neater than anything, full of ridiculous hair spray that women use. I’m wearing black slacks, a jacket to match and a very pale blue shirt that almost seems white. The tie isn’t needed but Nagisa has been insisting for fifteen minutes and if it will make him shut up then I’ll do it.

“Here, put this on.” He says, grabbing at me again. I don’t get the chance to do it myself and I smell cologne being dabbled strategically. Nagisa bought it for me ages ago and it never gets used. I think that it became a fixture on my dresser the week of my very first city exhibit. He said to me at the time that I needed to pick up my game. The money was good then, too, so it wasn’t hard for us to dress in style.

Nagisa got used to the good life and I tolerate it when I’m required to.

“We done?” I ask him with a sideways glance. He’s running his fingers through his perfectly placed golden locks and I shake my head. Nagisa is such a woman sometimes.

“Yup! Just let me fix this.” He replies as he fiddles with his shirt. I notice that he looks nicer than normal; real vibrant colours and expensive thread.

“What’s up with you?” I narrow my eyes as my mind tries to understand. I can’t find his purpose, though.

Nagisa gazes up with wide eyes and looking younger than he is. “What do you mean?”

“You’re dressing better than usual. Do you have a date?”

He balks and stiffens and I know that I’ve hit the mark by accident.

“No! I just want to look my best.” Nagisa lies quickly. “Come on, we’re late already.” He orders.

“Yeah, whose fault is that?” I reply and he pretends not to hear. I watch as Nagisa bolts out of my room and I’m quick to follow. I would have brought it up earlier if I had known that it was going to make such a difference in our time.

He looks ready to go, standing by the front door and practically tapping his foot impatiently. He isn’t but there is an obvious vibration to his form. You’d think that he wasn’t the one who made us take so long.

What an annoyance.

“Come on.” I state, patting myself down. I’ve got my keys, wallet and phone. The paintings are in the city and people will already be viewing them. Its past 7:30 and the show started at 7.

I stop myself from wondering about the night ahead and all that it holds. I’m already jittery and stiff from my clothes and I don’t need to start sweating, too.

As we step onto the sidewalk, a black sleek car pulls up and Nagisa grins like he planned it. He’s always putting on a show.

“Ready?” He asks me as the driver opens the door for him. I open my own because I’m not a princess and climb inside. We’ll be there soon enough and I’m already dreading the conversations that Nagisa has prepped me for.

That doesn’t stop him from lecturing me all the way there about proper etiquette and being polite to viewers as well as sponsors and other artists. It happens every time and I know his spiel word for word.

He tells me anyway and my car ride is anything but peaceful.

“Are you even listening?” Nagisa prods me in the ribs and I jolt. We’ve made it and this whole place is ridiculous. There’s colour everywhere and it’s  _so_  inner city. Bright lights litter the entryway and golden globes of different sizes hang from the roof. There is no main entrance and it is all one massive room; it’s a dome. The walls are lined with paintings and there is an area directly in the centre of the hall with a small stage. Beside it is a quartet of string players that insist on alternating between bouncy upbeat classical to low drawn out sounds of harmony.

I’m looking at the bar and eyeing off the servers gliding around with trays full of champagne. I don’t drink but I’m tense and maybe one glass of the stuff won’t be too bad.

“Yeah.” I reply as Nagisa pokes me again. It’s not very good behaviour for a man who wants to bring his best but I can’t complain because I don’t care. Also, I haven’t heard a word that he’s said.

“I told you that you’d have to meet him later and say thank you!” My manager goes on and I wave him off with a hand. Whoever it is will get my thanks, I don’t need to know their name. It doesn’t matter.

“I heard you.” I lie and Nagisa shuts up.

“No drinking. I saw that you had my wine.” He scolds.

I glare but I don’t reply. It would be easy for me to be snarky but I promised that I’d keep my mouth shut, which isn’t as hard for me as it is for others.

I lead the way as we browse the paintings one by one. Some appeal to me while others don’t. There has to be hundreds of pieces here and they are of the highest quality. I still can’t believe that Rin didn’t get in, though, because this installation work that I can see through the courtyard window is nothing compared to his fire and ice. There are smokers littered around it and I imagine for a moment that it’s a giant ashtray. I suppose that they needed diversity, but I still wouldn’t have chosen it.

And that’s why I’m just a painter who slaps on a smile at events and keeps his opinions to himself.

By the time I reach my paintings, Nagisa is gone. I can see him across the room chatting with a woman with red rimmed glasses and an angular dress that is artful in itself. I think that he’s stammering like an idiot and I now realise why he’s all dressed up. He’s had a hard on for Rin’s manager for a while now, so I should have known. I also think that if Rei is here, Rin must be as well. I wonder if he’s here to see if my work is a complete flop.

I don’t have to think on it long to find out. I’m standing before my painting of the park and the newest night sky. They don’t match each other at all but they seem to fit well. It’s a strange combination and I really like it.

“Hey.” A voice sounds from my left and I tilt my head. I note that it’s Rin and he’s suited up just like me. Unlike last time, he doesn’t seem to be snarling and there’s something serious about him.

“Hi.” I respond simply, gazing back at my painting. There are a few people walking by and having a look but we don’t move. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and mine are crossed over my torso loosely. We probably look pretty awkward, side by side with a strange sort of tension weaving between us. It’s noisy in the hall but to me this moment is silent.

“Haru…” Rin begins and he shuffles from foot to foot before looking at the ground. “These paintings…It’s a hell of a collection.” He says surprisingly. I was prepared for anything but not that.

“Yeah?”

He nods and hair obscures his eyes. I’m looking at him sideways now and I think that I respect how hard this is for Rin.

“Yeah.” He bites tersely but it doesn’t sound harsh at all; just prideful.

“Thanks.” I say after a moment or two of silence. I feel like I need to say something else, though. It was my fault that we grew to be on bad terms. I shouldn’t have disregarded him as an artist in

the beginning. I acknowledge him now and I should say so but this stuff doesn’t come easy to me. It’s really fucking difficult.

So I clear my throat and swallow my pride just like Rin.

“Fire and ice…it’s really  _good_.” I get out lamely while I look straight ahead. I’m not even staring at a painting but at the wall between them. It’s easier like this.

It’s silent and I wonder if I’ve offended him with my shitty words. I’ve been told that my voice is pretty sarcastic even when I’m being serious. However, when I chance a look at him, I see that his eyes are wide and he looks surprised; conflicted even.

“You okay?” I question blankly and it shakes him out. He’s nodding quickly and a smile pulls at the sides of his mouth. I don’t think I’ve seen Rin smile since the first time that I met him.

“Yeah, I just didn’t expect you to say that.” He informs and I can see gleaming white teeth now.

I feel awkward and I’m the one doing the shuffling. I hate it when people look at me like that directly.

“It’s fine.” I say as I glance to the side in embarrassment. I don’t know how to go on and I kind of want to turn on my heel and walk away.

“Hey.” He saves the silence. “I gotta do the rounds but… **thanks**. I’ll see you around?” Rin asks with a somewhat hopeful glint in his eyes and I nod stiffly in return. A hand claps upon my shoulder that jostles me and he’s chuckling heartily. Apparently all parts of this painter are abrasive. When Rin is a dick he’s forceful and when he’s being nice he is as well.

I can certainly appreciate the continuity.

“Sweet.” He grins and with one last grip of his fingers, Rin is off towards the next set of paintings. I see him greet someone out of the corner of my eye and he looks happy as he shakes their hand exuberantly. It looks so normal and brings me to think that I had just angered the beast inside of him when Rin’s really just like any other person.

I’m probably the biggest dick of all.

Looking back to my paintings, I feel my phone go off and I pull it from my pocket. The blue lighting says that it’s a text and I’m hesitant to open it.

What if it is Makoto saying that he’s here? What if he can see me right now and we’re about to meet? Why does it matter so much?

Suddenly my fingers are sweaty and my heart feels like it’s beating inside of my head. This feels like an abnormal reaction for meeting a friend for the first time and I grimace at myself. I don’t understand what’s happening to me and I don’t like it at all. This is just like the other day but I’m

not drunk anymore. Today wasn’t any better. After I got his stupid text I couldn’t stop looking at my phone and that’s something that I never do. I even carried it around with me for the rest of the time. I went on instant messenger but there was no one online. Nagisa’s chattering was constant and probably helped me from going nuts. Though, I suspect that I might already be there.

I’m really glad that I don’t make friends often because I don’t want to feel this every time.

I unlock the phone and open the text. I was right, it’s from Makoto. It’s also the vaguest thing that I’ve ever seen and it makes me a little angry. I’m getting annoyed as I stare down at the ‘hey’ written upon the screen and I forget about my sweating hands and beating heart as my brows draw together.

What the hell is this? I know that I’m glaring and I blow out a heavy breath and shove my phone away. I’m not going to reply to that!

I turn towards the bar and I’m feeling like I’m in need of that drink now. Unfortunately for me, the music halts and there is the distinct sound of a clinking glass as the entire dome goes silent. I glance to where Nagisa is standing and note that he isn’t looking at me. With the coast clear, I begin my trek to the free beverages. I don’t care about the speeches, they always take too long and I’m never listening, anyway.

I reach the bar and the man shakes his head. It seems that he won’t serve me until afterwards. Damn exhibits and their stupid etiquette.

“Heh hem.” A throat clears and with a sigh I turn to lean against the bar. My arms cross over my chest and I’m glancing all over the room at the smiling faces and dolled up people. However, when the person behind the microphone takes another breath, I can’t help but look up. It’s a familiar sound and it’s truly weird.

Except it isn’t at all. Very slowly my eyes begin to widen and a gasp becomes trapped in my throat. Puzzle pieces start to fall into place in my mind and my reason for being in this exhibit suddenly makes sense. I’m in shock and can do nothing but listen on.

“Hello everyone. I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. This is our first event here at the Daily News and the turnout is amazing. I’m the organiser of Cityscapes, Makoto Tachibana, and I’d like to extend my gratitude to all of the sponsors and artists that are helping to kick start our Creation Awareness Program. This is an event for seeing and appreciating so I will keep this short. Please soak up the atmosphere, enjoy the food and drink and take in the diverse creations that make up our city. Thank you.”

The speech is over before I’m able to deal with the war that’s going on inside of my mind as I look up at the stage. It’s pretty far away but no matter how I look at it Makoto is there. His dark hair seems to be just as unkempt as always but it looks like he tried. He’s wearing a suit like me with white accessories and he’s taller than I imagined. He hands the microphone over to another speaker but I’m not paying attention to what they have to say. Instead, I watch the way Makoto’s

lips turn upward and I’m able to see his teeth and how his cheeks rise and his eyes crinkle. I’m walking before I know it and it seems that my trajectory is set straight for this man. The annoyance is gone and the shock is starting to fade away. My heart still thuds loudly and I don’t notice the perspiration or my shaking fingers.

He’s looking at me and I think that he might have been since he left the stage. Then I’m in front of him and my stomach twists.

“Hey.” Makoto says when he meets me halfway. His tone is warm and I can feel my neck turning red. I didn’t think about what I’d want to say once I got here. He’s smiling so goddamned gently and it shouldn’t be allowed for a man to do this to someone.

“Makoto.” I get out. I don’t stutter and I feel like it’s an achievement.

He continues to smile and I make no move to talk.

“Let’s go see your paintings.” He suggests and I nod stiffly. His hand touches my shoulder before we walk and it’s so awkward. There’s tension even though he looks happy. I can feel it rolling around us like a dark cloud.

I’m happy in a really weird tension filled way and I stop in front of my works for the second time. He does the same and it’s silent for a moment. I don’t know what to say and he’s not making it any easier for me. It was better on the phone.

“You did this.” I finally decide on and he nods with a guilty smile.

“I did.” He replies.

My eyes narrow and I’m starting to see a few inconsistencies.

“Why?”

“Why did I put you in the show?” Makoto questions curiously, gazing at me even though I’m refusing to look.

“Why…Why did you help me?”

There’s a pause and then he sighs. It’s a strange sort of noise and he looks at the painting in front of him. I feel a weight lift off of me as his green eyes slide and it’s suddenly a lot easier to breathe.

“I wanted to. Because you helped me.” He admits and it doesn’t make sense to me.

“No I didn’t.” I reply and he just shakes his head.

“You did even if you don’t remember.”

I’m thinking hard but the pieces still aren’t fitting; not these ones.

…

“When did I help you? How?” I ask apprehensively and his smile grows. It’s nostalgic and I guess that I’m getting somewhere.

He doesn’t tell me straight away and steps closer to the paintings.

“Do you remember when I was busy with work?” He says.

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t just that. I was spooked and needed some space.” I’m looking at the back of his head now and it’s a lot easier to handle.

I frown. “From me?”

He nods and hums a sound of affirmation before pointing toward my painting of the park. Even though it was a scene from long ago it’s secretly one of my favourites.

“You see that boy on the bench?” He asks and I gaze at the writer with the obscured face. Nagisa asked me this question as well before he went all weird. What the hell?

“Mhm.” I intone and I’m looking at Makoto, not the painting, which is why I startle when he turns slightly to look at me. Our eyes meet and he says,

“That’s me. I used to write at the park every day.”

“What?” I think I heard right and I don’t know what to do with the information. I - painted Makoto?

“I used to go to the park in the afternoons and you’d always be there. The first painting that I saw you finish made me want to write. But that wasn’t when I met you.”

It’s just getting weirder. “You met me?” I ask incredulously.

Makoto steps back and he’s facing me now but I’ve been given a break from his intense gaze. I’m firmly looking at his shoulder even though he’s watching my face.

“At an exhibit I asked for your name. I don’t expect you to remember, but it was a pretty bad time for me and that day I realised a few things.”

I’m quiet as I soak in the words. He met me. Makoto talked to me already and I didn’t even know. He asked for my name.

It takes a minute for a light to go off in my head and I speak before thinking.

“You knew that the show was mine even though it was anonymous.” My eyes are narrowed but only in concentration.

“I did.” He nods. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you, Haru.”

I look up at his face again and see that he seems regretful, but I don’t condemn his actions at all. I still don’t understand how I helped him or why he’d push me back towards my spark without any need to. Nevertheless, I’m grateful and  _something else_  that I can’t quite define.

“It’s fine. I don’t really get it but it doesn’t matter.” I assure and his gaze snaps to mine.

Something within the green flickers and he looks over to the large side doors.

“Do you want to get some air?” He asks and it’s one of the best ideas that I’ve ever heard.

I nod and allow him to lead the way to the second courtyard. This one has a nicer instillation and it doesn’t allow smoking. There’s a seat but I’m too on edge. I feel like there’s so much to say and a lot more between us than I originally realised.

Nevertheless, this is Makoto. The rambling writer that showed me my spark and I haven’t forgotten that.

“Makoto.” I say when we’re both looking at the water fountain that’s meant to be art. I’m mesmerised by the way that it flows and I think that he’s glancing at me. The air is crisp outside despite the time of year and it feels nice against my hot skin.

“Yes?”

“You said that you realised something when we met. What was it?”

I see him stiffen slightly before exhaling and then a hand is touching my arm. I turn to face him and Makoto’s expression is startlingly bare. My heart thuds out of time and I think that I’m starting to realise what this feeling is.

“You gave me my spark, Haru, and I wanted to give you back yours. I realised that I wanted to write because of your paintings, for the rest of my life. I also discovered that I…” He falters a moment before pushing forward. “That I love you.”

His hand drops with his words and Makoto takes a step back. A sorry slips from his lips and a ‘I know it’s crazy’ and he turns away quickly. I don’t let it him go too far, however, as I grip at his forearm and tug him back. I definitely know what’s going on with me now even though I acted on instinct. It feels like a bucket of cold water has been tossed over me and it’s safe to say that I’m not ‘everything’. I’m ‘something’ and that something might just be gay.

“It’s okay.” I tell him and I make sure that my gaze holds. I can’t really say much else because I’m not sure about all these conflicting emotions welling inside of me. If only I could put it onto a canvas.

He doesn’t react, or look me in the eyes, so I say it again. “Makoto, it’s okay.” My hand slides down and I’m about to retreat before his own darts to catch it. His fingers are warm against my skin and he still looks apologetic.

“Haru, you understand what I mean, right?” He doesn’t look convinced even though my fingers part to let his slide between. We’ve grown much closer than before and my voice is lower when I mutter, “I understand.” If anyone were to come outside they would know right away what is going on.

“I  _love_  you.” Makoto impresses, like he’s confirming and I merely nod. “And I’m going to kiss you.” He warns so that I can back out if I want to.

I don’t. I tilt my head as his lips touch mine. It’s soft, full of feeling and completely inappropriate for the time and place; not to mention it’s our first real meeting. None of that matters, though. It’s perfectly imperfect even if it is the most bizarre experience that I’ve ever had. It’s so good that I forget that this is my first kiss.

It’s a brief moment that I sink into easily and Makoto pulls away first. I want to tell him not to apologise, but I don’t and he does. I don’t know that he’ll say sorry at least another dozen times tonight.

“This isn’t normal.” Makoto says, conflicted, when he steps back. He’s smiling despite the worry in his green eyes and he hasn’t let go of my hand.

“It’s okay.” I reply seriously. It feels like it’s quickly becoming a thing.

It’s true, though. It really is okay. There may be a lot that we need to work out and even more that I don’t understand about our past or even our present. However, I know this Makoto in front of me; rambling-writer. I still trust him even after he helped me in secret and seemingly conspired with my manager; if my assumption is correct. There are so many questions and its fine that I don’t have all the answers. I have my spark, Makoto, Nagisa, a truce with my rival and life isn’t so bad anymore. I might even be in love.

I smile as I squeeze Makoto’s hand. It’s so weird but normal already and I look back at the fountain in front of us.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve never been normal.” I tell him easily.

I don’t see why I should start now.

“You want to go back in?” I ask him after a moment and our fingers detangle. Makoto smiles at me radiantly and he nods.

“Okay.” He replies. “Do you want to have coffee later?”

I nod once and allow him to lead the way.

“Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Until the Epilogue


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofed by anilinsan.tumblr.com :)

It would be great to say that life became less annoying after the exhibit, but if I said that I would be lying. The initial opening wrapped up and the exhibit ran for two more months, whereupon the works were sent to the corresponding buyers and the money went into the City Awareness fund. I don’t know how much money my pieces made or the cut that I received but I don’t care. Nagisa still takes care of all that stuff and I’m sure that he bought himself a nice big bonus with what we got. 

I still have my spark and it’s running better than ever, though sometimes I wonder if it’s something else entirely. My paintings are slowly changing. The tone is becoming lighter and colours seem to pop off the canvas more and more. 

Nagisa said that it’s because I’m in love. I told him to shut up and he’s probably still snickering about it weeks later. 

There are four paintings completed in my studio and I think that I will have done enough for my upcoming exhibit. Rin’s is at the end of this year; in a month or two. Mine won’t open until March in the new year. It gives me plenty of time to hone this new spark, or as Makoto calls it, my flame. 

That’s what his writing is to him. It’s the same thing as a spark, I think, but he tells me that there is a difference. Remember when I said that he doesn’t seem like the ‘writer type’? I was wrong. Whenever we are talking about anything, his words flow with finesse and I can see pictures upon pictures forming in my head. I wonder if that’s what it’s like for him when he’s sitting in front of his computer. I’ve had to hang up on him more than once because his words have prompted a painting from me. It’s good, though. It takes the pressure off. 

I’ve just finished some alternative artwork. It’s a drawing, actually, and it will be the cover of Makoto’s newest book. He won’t tell me what the story means to him but I have read it and I think that it’s his version of us and our past. I don’t remember Makoto like he remembers me and sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if I did. Though, in the end I don’t think that anything could have brought us together sooner and from what his novel says Makoto thinks that it was fate that did the connecting. 

I don’t know about fate and fortunes but I won’t condemn it. It seems like too many coincidences between Makoto and I for it to be anything but. Regardless of whether they were coincidences of our own making or a hand premade, I’ll take it. I’ve never really been happy before. When I was a kid I loved to paint because it was an escape from my thoughts and I loved my grangran very much. I had one friend who is now my manager and life wasn’t horrible. Nevertheless, I grew to hate my existence and began to live in the future. I stopped seeing images and started smelling paychecks. I didn’t even care about the money but the expectation was looming and gradual, so gradual that I didn’t notice a damn thing. My inspiration disappeared and I guess fate decided to step in. 

Now, I have a new and improved version of my spark. It’s like it’s on fire. It never goes away and is always simmering beneath the surface just waiting for something to jolt me into action. I’m dreaming again and many are filled with Makoto. It doesn’t hinder the result, though. 

Yeah, life is back to normal but its better; a new normal. I won’t say that I’m happy all the time because that’s not who I am. I’m a negative person who has his positive moments. Nagisa used to do the balancing and now Makoto does, too, so it helps with my spirits. It’s also annoying as hell. They are both always so cheery and it makes me swear and want to lock myself away. 

I never do. I can’t bring myself to. As much as my friends are irritating they mean well and know what’s best for me. Nagisa and Makoto combined know me better than I do myself and yeah, I trust them a lot. 

I guess it’s obvious that Makoto isn’t just my friend. He’s a lot more than that. He tells me that I’m his boyfriend. It sounds weird to me, though, because I’ve never been anyone’s anything, so I just settle for nothing but us; Makoto and Haru. 

Even just thinking of our names together makes me flush red with embarrassment. It’s not so bad when we’re together because I don’t have to think about him, which is something that I can’t stop myself from doing when we are apart. Nagisa calls it the honeymoon phase and I’m sure it’s obvious where I told him to stick it. 

I’ve been seeing my manager on Friday’s like normal but sometimes we do it another night because I’ve been spending a lot of time at Makoto’s apartment. It’s only been five months but it feels like we’ve been together for much longer and knowing how I don’t like change, I don’t think that either of us will be going anywhere anytime soon. I can see that by the way that Makoto wants to make a studio for me so that I don’t have to rush away whenever inspiration hits. His apartment is flashy and I think that he’s secretly manipulating me to move in with him. It’s not really my style but the artwork is nice and the company isn’t bad, either; especially since he gives me my space. 

I thought that it would be difficult being intimate with another human being and that I’d never have the opportunity; nor did I want it. Human instincts are powerful, though, I have discovered. It turns out that we were both as clueless as each other when it comes to love and relationships and sex, which is fucking embarrassing for two men in their mid-twenties. Makoto said to me that it’s because he’s only ever loved me and that I’m a robot. I should have resented him for his statement but it just warmed my heart. The moment was also pretty intense and inappropriate so I didn’t dwell on it for too long. I won’t delve into it, but I didn’t know that a person could feel that amount of pleasure…or embarrassment.

I’m learning things every day about myself and my new partner. I’ve noticed that Makoto is always smiling. He smiled after our first kiss and every one thereafter, he smiled all throughout our torturous first date, as we stumbled through our awkward sexual experiences and he even smiles when I tell him to shut up. I guess that it’s because he knows that I don’t really mean it. 

We’re a strange pair and even more odd if I add Nagisa into the equation. Makoto and he are becoming friends and I’m not sure how I feel about that. 

“Haru, are you hungry?” Makoto’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and I look at my creation on the laptop screen. There are a few things that I’d like to brush up on and I dislike that drawing with an electronic tablet is so clinical, but Makoto got it for me and I’ve slowly been using it more and more. Besides, I can’t really paint him a book cover. Well, I could, but this is a bit different. Two boys that look suspiciously like us and I sit upon a bench with the fading golden sky. It’s simple and speaks of an intimacy that never happened when we were that age. It’s nice, though, and compliments the message of the novel. I’ve read the whole thing and gone over a few bits again, but Makoto doesn’t need to know about the last bit. 

“Yeah.” I call back. “I’m almost finished.” I sigh and lean back in the chair, stretching. This is Makoto’s study and it’s not where he works. He’s weird and likes to spend his time in the main house. This small area is better for my concentration. There are two of my paintings hanging on the wall that were made years and years ago. Whenever I see them I feel a nostalgic pull and I remember that we have been connected through art for a long time. 

“It’s not much.” Makoto replies. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his torso. It’s a Saturday night and he’s not expected to be at work until Monday so he’s slumming around in his house clothes. 

Still, he looks better than me on most days. I don’t know how sweat pants manage to look expensive on him, or how his messy hair looks refined, but it works. There’s a chance that I might be a little bias, however. 

Yeah, I fell in love because of art and the person that Makoto is but I won’t deny that he’s attractive. I’ve painted him a few times, but that’s a secret that he’ll never find out about. 

Hopefully. 

“What is it?” I ask and he grins at me, pushing off the wall. 

“Your favourite.” He replies moving to stand behind me. Makoto’s hands rest upon my shoulders and then I feel the familiar tug. It’s his silent way of saying,  _Come on, let’s go_. He knows that I’ll be here for another hour or more otherwise. 

I sigh in response and push away from the desk. Makoto makes a noise of approval and I lead the way to the kitchen. Moments like these have become ordinary for me and sometimes I forget that it hasn’t always been this way. I hate doing what people say but Makoto is tricky like that. Nagisa is as well but he’s less subtle about it and has fewer tricks up his sleeve. 

“You’ve been at it for a while.” Makoto observes as he shuffles around the kitchen, plating up my mystery meal. I’ve never really had a favourite, but if he insists that it is then I’m sure that I like it a lot. I take a seat at the centre island where we usually eat unless the television is on. I still don’t like watching tv shows, but Makoto does so I guess it’s fine. 

Grilled fish on toast is placed in front of me and I nod in satisfaction. He’s right; it is one of my favourites. Makoto’s meal is different and I note as he sits down that it’s some kind of soup and I wrinkle my nose at the colour. I don’t know why Makoto bothers with all that healthy shit. He’s nutritional enough for the both of us. He is fit but in an unobtrusive way. I really don’t know how he fits everything in. With work, his writing, Cityscapes, me and Miko the cat one would think that Makoto would be too busy for evening runs and a health regime.   

“Thanks.” I say absently, fingering my utensils. He doesn’t crowd me and sits about a foot away. That’s one of the things that I can appreciate. There are times when we are close but I often forget that we are more than friends. Then Makoto will reach for my hand like he is doing now and I remember in full force. 

“It’s okay.” He smiles, going back to his own food and a cheery silence follows. It’s comfortable and I almost forget about his previous question.

“I finished the cover. I don’t know if it’s what you want.” I reply and Makoto shakes his head. 

“Don’t be stupid. You know I’ll like it. I’m nervous about the reception, though.” 

“Of the picture?”

“No. Of the book.” He says seriously, sounding all innocent. 

“Now  _that’s_  stupid.” I state, chewing my next bite down before going on. “This is your third novel, Mako, and they were all great.” 

Makoto’s spoon clinks against the bowl and I see soup dribble as he stares at me openly. 

“How do you know that?” 

“Idiot. I read them, didn’t I?”

“You did?” 

Fuck. He sounds surprised and his smile is so happy and I’m looking away because this is so damn embarrassing. I should have just kept my mouth shut. 

“Yes, now drink your soup.” I grouse without turning my head and I can still feel his eyes on me. The sounds of movement fill my ears and the pressure inside of me lessens. Good, he’s not watching me. I can always tell and I don’t know if it’s freaky or not. 

I go back to chewing on my fish and toast. It tastes salty and I like it a lot. 

It takes a moment but I see it coming from the corner of my eye. “Hey Haru.” Makoto says and I sigh outwardly. 

“Mhm.” I intone, not wanting to encourage him. He does it anyway. He’s always prone to moments of emotion and I don’t know how to deal with them at all. 

Lips touch my cheek and he says softly. “Thank you.” 

“Aa.” I reply but I know that he knows that it gets to me. He’s a bastard. 

Thankfully, the subject is changed as he asks. “Are you staying tonight?” 

I shrug and it’s as good as a yes. 

“I was thinking we could watch a movie. It’s going to get pretty busy from next week onwards and we haven’t done something like this before.” 

I frown. “I watch tv with you all the time.”

“Yeah, but you aren’t actually watching. You just sit there and stare into space. You know, I’ll never figure out what you’re thinking up there.”

“It’s not very interesting. Staring at a wall is better than the shit on tv, anyway.”

Makoto smiles brighter than before and I’m going to tell him that I’m not joking, but he hushes me with a finger.

“You’ll like this.” He assures.

“Oh?” I suppose I’m curious. I haven’t found something that takes my interest just yet, so I’ll be pretty impressed. 

“It’s about time lapse photography.” 

“I’ve heard of that.” 

“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t. It’s all different water landscapes taken over a period of time. I only saw a sample at the book store but I had to buy it. I knew it’d be your thing.”

…

“You got it for me?” 

Makoto nods. 

“You didn’t need to.”

“I know.” He replies and my empty plate is taken from me. They are put into the sink to deal with later and I find that I’m being tugged over to the living room. Miko is asleep on the couch and Makoto gently picks her up to move her. I swear that I’m given a glare for stealing her seat but I can’t say that I don’t appreciate the warmth trapped within the fabric. 

The television turns on and it seems that Makoto has already set it up. He switches to the dvd channel and then I’m looking at a pause screen. 

“You planned this.” I accuse lightly. Makoto looks guilty and I reach for his hand. It causes him to blush and a strange sense of satisfaction fills me. It leaves as soon as the feature begins and I sit forward in my seat. I’m not sure if this was such a good idea because as soon as I see the waterfall on the screen and the way the shot pans out before moving through day and night, my skin begins to tingle all over 

Oh no. 

The shot changes and I’m looking at the ocean. It’s high tide and in quick sliding motions the water ebbs away until it is just sand. Then, it moves back in again but the pace is rapid and completely breathtaking. The foam against the sand is close and I almost forget that it’s a dvd. 

My skin is burning now and my heart is thudding fast. The rainforest is next and I’m not even sure what country it is but the stream that sits along the centre of the walkway has been carved through many years of flowing and it’s a true natural wonder. It’s green everywhere and reminds me of Makoto’s eyes. It’s the last nail in my coffin because I can feel my foot tapping and Makoto is looking at me suspiciously. This has happened more than once and I feel bad about doing this to him. Nevertheless, my bones are ratting and there is a fire burning inside of me. I can’t take my eyes off of what’s in front of me and when Makoto tries to wriggle his fingers I realise that I’ve been clenching tightly. 

“Makoto.” I get out and I hear him sigh in understanding. My hand slides from his and I grip at my pants before pulling out my phone. It takes me all of a second to press the number one for speed dial and Nagisa answers on the fifth ring.

“What can I do for you, Haru?” He asks me after the obligatory hello’s that I don’t comprehend. 

“A car to Makoto’s.  _Now_.” I state and he gasps before exclaiming,

“Roger!” 

“I’m leaving.” I tell him and he’s begging me to wait.

“What?” I grouse, frowning at the wall in my direct line of vision. 

“You’re really back, Haru. This is the fifth painting in nine weeks.” Nagisa says and it’s annoying because I already know this. 

“And?”

He chuckles. “Nothing. I’m just proud of you.”

My scowl grows and I tell him that he’s disgusting. He assures that it will be five minutes or so and I don’t think that I’ve been happier that Nagisa lives close by. It’s annoying a lot of the time but when my spark hits it’s a life saver. 

“I have to go.” I turn to Makoto who looks a little sad but okay. 

“I know.” He smiles softly and I lean forward. Our lips collide and I make sure to kiss him good and deep. It always fuels on my inspiration and it’s a good way to appease him.

“You do that and I won’t let you leave.”

“Be careful, I might use you as my canvas.” I warn back and his eyes glint at the suggestion.

“I wouldn’t mind.” He smirks and I realise that I wouldn’t either. I guess I should put it in my idea column for later. 

Moving quickly, I grab my keys, phone and wallet and reef open the front door. Makoto is behind me and we share one more brief kiss. 

“Pick you up for dinner if you’re done?” He asks hopefully and I nod once. 

“Lunch if you’re lucky.” I reply. 

“Done.” Makoto grins, squeezing my hand and then the door closes. I don’t hear him mutter about making a studio but I still sense that it’s on the horizon. I walk to the lift and press the button repeatedly. My fingers are shaking and my skin is crawling. There are pictures moving all through my mind and if I’m not quick I don’t know what will happen. 

The elevator doors open and I step inside. They slide closed again and the button to the ground floor lights up. 

Tonight I’ll paint like there is no tomorrow and when I surface Makoto will be there to feed me and toss me into the most comfortable bed known to man. It’s certainly different to where I started, but now I have friends, my spark, I’m in love and for the first time ever I’m happy. 

I hate change but I think that it’s all been worth it. I’ll willingly maintain what I have until I’m forced out of it again. Hopefully it doesn’t come any time soon. 

My life was loveless long before the painting came into existence and I’m thankful that it did. 

It led me to my new spark and Makoto. 

Yeah, my life is anything but loveless. 

 


End file.
